Chapter 2 - Echoes in the DarkThe audio file hissed as the sentence hung heavy in the high-ceilinged room. The person responsible is still inside your house.
The words didn't just echo; they seemed to freeze the air in my lungs. I looked at Dominic. The man who radiated cold authority, who commanded the respect of hardened criminals and terrified local politicians, looked as though he had been struck across the face. His broad shoulders stiffened, his jaw locking so tight a muscle ticked beneath his dark stubble.
“Dominic—” I started, my voice barely a squeak.
He held up a single hand, his gaze fixed on the small digital recorder resting in my palm. The tiny LED light flickered once, then died as the battery or the file reached its end. Silence rushed back into the room like a vacuum, heavier and more oppressive than it had ever been before.
“Play it again,” he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a lethal edge.
“Are you sure?” I asked, my fingers trembling slightly.
“Play it.”
I pressed the rewind button, found the final track, and hit play again. Sofia’s bright, youthful voice cut through the stillness a second time.
“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.”
Click. The recording ended.
Dominic turned away from me, walking slowly toward the tall glass windows that overlooked the manicured lawns of the estate. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides. Ten years. For a decade, he had believed his sister’s death was a tragic drunk-driving accident on a winding Westchester road. For a decade, he had punished himself by stripping all joy, all sound, and all color from his life, transforming his home into a mausoleum.
And now, a ten-year-old voice note had torn open a scar he thought had healed over.
“Who knew about this recorder?” I asked softly, taking a cautious step forward.
“No one,” Dominic muttered, his back to me. “She bought it a month before she died. She called it her ‘song catcher.’ She recorded lyrics, random thoughts, piano melodies. I packed up her room after the funeral. I thought I cleared everything out.”
“She hid it behind a loose panel,” I recalled. “You said you found it three days ago.”
He turned around, his dark eyes locking onto mine. There was a vulnerability in them now that he usually kept locked away behind impenetrable iron bars. It made my chest ache. “Three days ago. Right before you started. Before you brought that speaker into my parlor and broke a rule I haven't broken in a decade.”
“You think it’s a coincidence?” I asked.
“I don't believe in coincidences, Rachel,” he said, closing the distance between us with predatory grace. He stopped just inches away, tall enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him. “People don't just wander into my life and start singing songs I haven't heard since my sister was alive.”
“I didn't know the song!” I defended myself, my defensive instincts flaring up. “I was just cleaning and listening to a random playlist on my phone!”
“Which playlist?”
“Just... standard pop hits! Nothing special!”
Dominic stared down at me, searching my face for any sign of deception. I held my ground, though my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Finally, he exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally.
“I know,” he said quietly. “You’re transparent, Rachel. If you were lying, your pulse would be racing loud enough for me to hear.”
“My pulse is racing loud enough for you to hear, you’re just standing too close!” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
For a split second, the corners of his mouth twitched upward again—a ghost of a smile. But it vanished as quickly as it came. He reached out, his warm fingers brushing against my hand as he gently took the recorder from my grip. His touch sent an electric shock straight up my arm, making me gasp inwardly.
“We need to talk to Marcus,” Dominic said, his tone turning businesslike, cold, and lethal once more.
We descended the stairs from the west wing, leaving the ghosts of the past behind us. Marcus was waiting in the lower hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. One look at our faces made the security chief straighten up instantly.
“Boss?” Marcus asked, his eyes darting between Dominic’s grim expression and my pale face.
“Get the staff files,” Dominic commanded as we walked toward his private study at the end of the main corridor. “Every background check, every employment application, every reference from the past ten years. Start with the people who were working here when Sofia died.”
Marcus’s eyes widened slightly. “Boss, are you saying—”
“I’m not saying anything yet,” Dominic interrupted, striding behind his massive mahogany desk. “I’m verifying. Sofia left a message. Someone in this house took her from me.”
Marcus didn't hesitate. He gave a sharp nod and hurried off to the security wing.
Dominic sat down in his leather chair, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger. He looked exhausted—not the physical tiredness of a long workday, but the crushing weight of a burden he had carried alone for ten years.
“You should go back downstairs,” Dominic said without looking up. “Finish your duties.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, hesitating by the door. “I mean... if there’s someone in this house who did something to her, and they know you found that recorder...”
Dominic’s head snapped up. His eyes flashed with sudden, terrifying intensity. “They won't touch you. You work for me.”
“That’s supposed to be comforting, but given your line of work, it’s slightly alarming,” I muttered under my breath.
Dominic actually let out a short, dry chuckle—a sound that was so rare I almost imagined it. “Just go, Rachel. And keep your doors locked tonight.”
I left the study, my mind spinning out of control. I had signed up to dust expensive furniture, polish silverware, and vacuum Persian rugs in exchange for a paycheck that kept my small apartment heated. I had not signed up to be an accessory to a ten-year-old mafia murder mystery.
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By 5:00 p.m., I had finished my chores and changed into my street clothes. As I walked out to my Honda, the sky was painted in bruised shades of purple and orange. I glanced up at the second-floor window of the west wing. The light was on again.
I sat in my car for a long time, staring at the glowing window, realizing with a sinking feeling in my stomach that my life was never going back to normal.
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