Chapter 5
From her seat on the bottom step of the staircase, Nola let out a small, sharp gasp.
"Grandpa," she called out, her voice thin and curious. "Look. There’s a shiny button inside."
Lachlan paused. He stepped back from Ottoline, turning his head toward the child.
Nola had managed to push half of the polyester batting back into the rabbit’s belly. But as she had reached her tiny hand deep into the fabric cavity, her fingers had brushed against something hard, flat, and cold wedged into the interior lining of the head—something that had not been part of the stuffing.
She pulled her hand out. Between her thumb and forefinger, she held a small, circular metallic disc, no larger than a fifty-cent coin, wrapped in several layers of clear cellophane and secured with yellowed surgical tape.
Lachlan walked over to the staircase. He knelt down on one knee, his broad back sheltering Nola completely.
"Give it to me, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice softening into that low, paternal cadence reserved only for her.
Nola placed the sticky little bundle into his open palm. "Is it a secret, Grandpa?"
"Yes, little bird," Lachlan said. "It’s a secret."
He used the thumbnail of his right hand to slice through the brittle tape. The cellophane fell away, revealing a micro-recording disc—the kind used in specialized medical dictation equipment fifteen years ago, before everything went digital. Across the silver surface of the disc, written in the faint, trembling cursive of a woman whose hands had been failing her, were three words in blue permanent ink:
For Lachlan. Listen.
Ashcombe stood up from the bench, his face drained of every drop of blood. "That... that was Mother’s. She kept a journal. She was confused, Dad! In the final weeks, she was hallucinating! She thought the nurses were poisoning her food! She thought the walls were talking to her!"
"Did she?" Lachlan asked without looking up.
He reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out his slim gold fountain pen, and slid the cap off. The base of the pen concealed a miniature digital adapter—a tool of his trade, designed for transferring encrypted data between syndicate nodes. He clicked the disc into the tiny port on the side of the pen and tapped the activation switch.
A soft, hissing crackle filled the vast, silent ballroom.
Then, a voice emerged from the pen’s speaker.
It was weak, raspy, strained by shallow breathing, but the cadence was unmistakable. It was Clara Ashcombe, speaking from the edge of the grave.
"Lachlan... my darling... if you are hearing this, it means they have succeeded in keeping you away until it was too late."
Ashcombe dropped to his knees on the carpet, clutching his head in his hands with a choked, animal sob.
"Ottoline is not a nurse," the recording continued, the voice trembling with physical pain. "She was sent by the Castiglione family. I found the ledger in Ashcombe’s briefcase three days ago. Ashcombe owes thirty million on the southern freight terminals. He sold my shares to cover his margins. When I told him I would disinherit him and give everything to Nola... he let her change the IV drip."
A terrible, rattling breath echoed through the tiny speaker.
"He is standing at the foot of my bed right now, Lachlan. He is holding my hand and weeping, telling me he loves me, while she turns the valve. Do not let them take Nola. Save my granddaught—"
The recording ended with a sharp, mechanical click.
The silence that followed was suffocating. It pressed against the eardrums like the pressure at the bottom of the ocean.
May you like
Ottoline was already moving.
With a sudden, violent burst of adrenaline, she kicked off her silver heels, hoisted the hem of her emerald gown, and bolted toward the terrace doors, reaching for the brass latch.
