Chapter 2 - The Voice Behind the Wall
Dominic stopped the recording.
Not paused.
Stopped.
His thumb hit the button so hard I heard the plastic click.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
The photographs of Sofia seemed to watch us from every shelf.
I looked at Dominic.
His face had changed.
Not dramatically.
That wasn't his way.
But I had spent seven days learning the small things about him—the tightening of his jaw when irritated, the slight narrowing of his eyes when suspicious, the way his shoulders became completely still when he was angry.
Now he was motionless.
Too motionless.
“Play it again,” he said.
I did.
Sofia's voice filled the room.
“Dom, if you're hearing this, then I finally found the courage to tell you the truth. The accident wasn't an accident. And the person responsible is still inside your house.”
Static.
Then:
“I found documents in Dad's old office. Payments. Dates. Names. Someone has been stealing from the family companies for years. I confronted them tonight. That was a mistake.”
Dominic's eyes closed briefly.
The recording continued.
“If anything happens to me, don't trust the police report. Don't trust the car. And most importantly…”
A loud sound interrupted the recording.
A door opening.
Sofia gasped.
Then the audio ended.
I stared at the recorder.
“That’s it?”
Dominic took it from my hand and replayed the final seconds.
Door.
Gasp.
Silence.
Again.
Door.
Gasp.
Silence.
He played it a third time.
“Dominic.”
Nothing.
“Dominic.”
He stopped.
“You said she died in an accident.”
“Her car went off a bridge.”
“And you never suspected—”
“No.”
The word came out harder than anything he'd said to me before.
I stepped back instinctively.
His expression immediately changed.
Not softer.
Regretful.
“That wasn't directed at you.”
“I know.”
He turned away.
“Sofia was twenty-four. She was driving home during a storm. Police said she lost control.”
“But now…”
“Now I know she expected something to happen.”
He walked toward the windows.
I should have left.
I knew that.
This wasn't my family.
This wasn't my mystery.
This definitely wasn't covered under housekeeping duties.
Instead, I looked at the recorder again.
“What documents?”
Dominic turned.
“She mentioned documents.”
“I heard her.”
“Your father’s old office. Is it still here?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Rachel.”
“What?”
“You clean houses.”
“Yes.”
“You are not an investigator.”
“I didn't say I was.”
“You're looking at me exactly like someone preparing to investigate.”
“That is just my face.”
For the first time since the recording began, something almost human moved behind his eyes.
Then it disappeared.
“My father's office has been locked since his death eight years ago.”
“Who has the key?”
“I do.”
“Then maybe start there.”
He studied me.
“You aren't frightened?”
“I'm extremely frightened.”
“You don't act like it.”
“My fear and my mouth have never had a cooperative relationship.”
That almost-smile returned.
Briefly.
Then he reached into his pocket.
A brass key landed in his palm.
“Come.”
The office was downstairs behind the library.
Marcus joined us halfway there.
Dominic told him about the recording.
Marcus's reaction was immediate.
“Who else knows?”
“No one.”
“Keep it that way.”
Dominic nodded.
Marcus looked at me.
“She heard everything?”
“She stays.”
I blinked.
Nobody had asked me.
Marcus seemed equally surprised.
“Dominic—”
“She stays.”
Marcus's gaze moved between us.
Then he nodded.
The old office smelled like dust, leather, and years of closed windows.
I switched on a lamp.
Dominic stood behind his father's desk.
Marcus checked cabinets.
I did what I knew how to do.
I cleaned.
Not because the room needed it.
Because cleaning helped me think.
Dust showed disturbance.
Objects remembered where hands had touched them.
After ten minutes, I noticed something.
“Dominic.”
He looked up.
I pointed at a bookcase.
“Everything in here has the same layer of dust except that.”
One shelf was cleaner.
Barely.
Marcus approached.
“There’s a draft.”
Dominic removed three books.
Behind them was a small metal latch.
Click.
Part of the bookcase opened.
A narrow compartment appeared.
Empty.
Almost.
At the bottom lay a torn piece of paper.
Marcus picked it up.
Three words were written in faded ink.
MARCH 14 — VINCENT.
Dominic went still.
“Who's Vincent?” I asked.
Neither man answered.
That was answer enough.
Finally Marcus spoke.
“Vincent Moretti.”
“Friend?”
Dominic's eyes remained on the paper.
“My uncle.”
My stomach dropped.
“Your mother's brother?”
“My father's.”
“And he still comes here?”
Dominic looked toward the hallway.
“Every Sunday.”
Sunday was tomorrow.
The next morning, I nearly called in sick.
Instead, I arrived early.
By noon, the mansion had transformed.
Dining room prepared.
Wine opened.
Security doubled without explanation.
At 1:05, a black Bentley entered the driveway.
Vincent Moretti stepped out.
He was sixty-three, silver-haired, elegant, charming.
He hugged Dominic.
Called Marcus “son.”
Then he saw me.
“And who's this?”
“Rachel,” Dominic said.
“My housekeeper.”
Vincent smiled warmly.
“A beautiful housekeeper. Dangerous choice.”
Dominic's expression didn't move.
Rachel, I told myself, disappear.
Invisible.
Remember invisible?
I lowered my gaze.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Vincent walked past.
Then stopped.
He turned back.
His eyes dropped to the Bluetooth speaker on my cart.
Something changed in his face.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
Recognition.
“Where did you get that?”
“My speaker?”
“Yes.”
“I bought it.”
His smile returned.
“Of course.”
He continued toward the dining room.
I looked at Dominic.
Dominic looked at me.
He had seen it too.
Lunch lasted ninety minutes.
I stayed away.
At 2:46, I entered the library to collect glasses.
Vincent was alone.
He stood beside the fireplace.
“You're new.”
“Yes.”
“How do you like working for my nephew?”
“Very much.”
“He can be difficult.”
“He's been fair.”
Vincent smiled.
“Fair isn't a word people usually use for Dominic.”
I didn't respond.
His gaze drifted toward the west wing.
“You should be careful in old houses, Rachel.”
My hand tightened around the tray.
“Excuse me?”
“Doors stick. Floors creak. People hear things they weren't meant to hear.”
My blood turned cold.
Then Dominic entered.
“Uncle.”
Vincent's expression instantly warmed.
“There you are.”
Dominic looked at me.
“Rachel.”
One word.
Permission to leave.
I did.
That evening, after Vincent departed, Dominic found me in the kitchen.
“What did he say?”
I repeated everything.
Marcus swore quietly.
Dominic remained calm.
Too calm.
“He knows,” I said.
“He suspects.”
“There's a difference?”
“Yes.”
“What happens now?”
“We find out why Sofia wrote his name.”
Marcus entered carrying a laptop.
“I pulled archived security records.”
Dominic looked up.
“From ten years ago?”
“Not video. Access logs.”
Marcus turned the screen.
“Night Sofia made the recording. Three people entered the mansion after midnight.”
He pointed.
“Your father.”
Another line.
“Vincent.”
Then a third.
I read the name.
My stomach twisted.
“Who is Evelyn Vale?”
Dominic didn't answer.
I looked at him.
His face had gone pale.
Finally, he said:
May you like
“My mother.”
And according to the access log, she had entered Sofia's room seventeen minutes before Sofia made the recording.
