Chapter 2 - The Forbidden Bedroom
Damian Costello had been shot twice in his life.
The first bullet had entered his shoulder when he was twenty-three.
The second had grazed his ribs three years later.
Neither frightened him as much as the four words Beatrice Hayes had just spoken.
He said she's alive.
Clara.
His little sister.
Alive.
Impossible.
Damian stared at Bea.
“Say it again.”
Her eyes flicked toward the bedroom door.
“Your sister is alive.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard Richard.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Another faint metallic click sounded outside.
Damian raised one finger to his lips.
Bea became silent.
Richard's voice came through the door.
“Damian?”
Calm.
Friendly.
Almost concerned.
“Everything all right?”
Damian's gaze remained on Bea.
He spoke loudly enough to carry through the door.
“Why wouldn't it be?”
A pause.
“I saw Beatrice come up here. Thought you might have a problem.”
Damian looked at Bea.
She shook her head frantically.
Richard was trying to frame her.
Damian understood immediately.
“What kind of problem?”
“She was behaving strangely.”
“Strangely how?”
Another pause.
“I think she stole something.”
Beatrice's lips parted.
Damian motioned for silence.
“What did she steal?”
“I don't know yet.”
Damian glanced at the papers in his hand.
Richard's handwriting stared back at him.
Camera rotations.
Guard positions.
Access codes.
Details only a handful of people knew.
“You don't know?”
“No.”
“But you think she stole something?”
“I saw her enter your suite.”
Damian almost smiled.
Richard was usually better than this.
Fear had made him careless.
“Interesting.”
“Open the door, Damian.”
Damian's expression hardened.
“Why?”
Silence.
Then Richard answered.
“Because she may be dangerous.”
Damian looked at the frightened young woman sitting barefoot beneath his blankets.
Beatrice was five-foot-seven and probably weighed half what Richard did.
Dangerous wasn't the first word that came to mind.
Terrified was.
Exhausted.
Confused.
But there was something else in her expression.
Courage.
She had heard a murder being planned.
She could have hidden.
She could have run.
Instead she had taken evidence.
Evidence meant for him.
Damian stepped toward the door.
Beatrice caught his wrist.
“No.”
Her whisper was barely audible.
Damian looked down.
“He has a gun.”
“So do I.”
“He said the first shot kills you.”
Something cold moved through Damian.
Not because of the threat.
Because she knew the exact phrase.
He had not told her anything about the docks.
Nothing about the cameras.
Nothing about Richard.
Yet every detail matched what Damian had begun suspecting during the drive home.
He turned away from the door.
“Come here.”
Bea climbed from the bed.
Her legs nearly gave out when she stood.
Damian caught her elbow.
She flinched.
“I'm not going to hurt you.”
The statement surprised them both.
Bea nodded.
Damian guided her behind a marble column beside the wardrobe.
“Stay here.”
“What are you doing?”
“Finding out whether you're telling the truth.”
He walked toward the door.
“Damian—”
He unlocked it.
Beatrice stopped breathing.
Damian opened the door six inches.
Richard stood outside.
Exactly as Bea had described.
Perfect suit.
Silver at his temples.
Controlled expression.
His right hand was behind his back.
Damian looked at him.
“Move your hand.”
Richard smiled faintly.
“What?”
“Your right hand.”
Richard's smile disappeared.
“Damian—”
“Now.”
Slowly Richard brought his hand forward.
Empty.
But Damian saw the shape beneath his jacket.
A weapon had been tucked into his waistband.
“Where's Beatrice?” Richard asked.
“Why?”
“She overheard something confidential.”
“What?”
Richard studied Damian's face.
“A security conversation.”
“About?”
“The docks.”
Damian nodded slowly.
“The docks.”
“Yes.”
“Funny.”
Richard's eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“There was nothing at the docks.”
A tiny pause.
Almost invisible.
But Damian saw it.
Fifteen years taught you things about a man.
How he lied.
How he breathed when nervous.
How his eyes moved before violence.
Richard looked past Damian into the bedroom.
“Where is she?”
Damian's voice became quiet.
“Go downstairs.”
Richard stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“Tell every guard nobody enters or leaves the estate.”
“Damian—”
“Do it.”
Richard didn't move.
Then Damian added:
“And give me your gun.”
That changed everything.
Richard's face emptied.
Behind the column, Beatrice pressed one hand against her mouth.
Damian extended his palm.
“The gun.”
Richard slowly reached inside his jacket.
For one second, Damian thought fifteen years of loyalty might somehow survive.
Then Richard moved.
Fast.
His hand closed around the pistol.
Damian slammed the bedroom door.
A gunshot exploded through the wood.
Beatrice screamed.
Damian threw himself sideways.
A second bullet struck the marble wall.
“Bathroom!” Damian shouted.
Beatrice ran.
Damian fired through the door.
Richard's footsteps retreated.
Damian opened the door and moved into the hallway.
Empty.
He heard running downstairs.
Then shouting.
The mansion erupted.
Damian returned to the bedroom.
Beatrice stood inside the bathroom doorway, pale and shaking.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
“You?”
“No.”
Damian locked the bedroom again.
Then he looked at the flash drive.
“Tell me everything.”
And Bea did.
She told him about the library.
The southern cameras.
The false shipment.
The twenty-minute window.
The order that the first shot must kill him.
Then she reached the part she dreaded.
“Richard said Clara remained useful until he said otherwise.”
Damian's face became unreadable.
Bea continued carefully.
“He said your family spent five years believing the Pendletons murdered her.”
Damian looked toward the storm.
“And?”
Beatrice swallowed.
“He said the lie bought them an entire war.”
Damian closed his eyes.
Only for a second.
But Bea saw something behind the controlled exterior.
Pain.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Pain.
When he opened his eyes again, it had disappeared.
“Give me the drive.”
She handed it to him.
Damian crossed to a secure laptop.
The flash drive contained dozens of encrypted folders.
He opened the first.
Photographs.
Bank transfers.
Security schedules.
Names.
The second folder contained recordings.
The third contained surveillance images.
Damian clicked one.
A photograph appeared.
Date stamped eleven months earlier.
A woman stepped from a black SUV outside a house Damian did not recognize.
Dark hair.
Profile turned slightly away.
He leaned closer.
Beatrice watched his face.
“Is that—”
“Clara.”
His voice broke on the name.
Beatrice said nothing.
Damian enlarged the image.
His sister had been twenty-four when she disappeared.
She would be twenty-nine now.
The woman in the photograph looked older.
Thinner.
But it was Clara.
There was no question.
Damian touched the screen.
For five years he had visited an empty grave.
For five years he had blamed the Pendletons.
For five years men had died because he believed his sister had been murdered.
And Richard had known.
A second photograph showed Clara entering the same house.
A third showed Richard beside her.
Damian's hand curled into a fist.
Beatrice moved closer.
“I'm sorry.”
He turned.
“For what?”
“For being the person who told you.”
Damian stared at her.
It was such a strange thing to say that, despite everything, he almost smiled.
“You saved my life.”
“I broke into your bedroom.”
“To save my life.”
“I also slept in your bed.”
“That part remains unexplained.”
For the first time all night, a tiny, nervous laugh escaped her.
Damian looked at her.
Something shifted.
Briefly.
Then alarms sounded downstairs.
His phone rang.
He answered.
“What?”
A guard shouted through the speaker.
“Boss, Lawson's gone.”
“How?”
“South gate.”
Damian looked toward the security map.
Of course.
Richard had disabled the cameras because he had prepared his own escape route.
“Lock down the city contacts.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And find Clara.”
Damian ended the call.
Beatrice stared at him.
“You believe me?”
He held up the photograph.
“I believe this.”
Thunder shook the windows.
Damian began issuing orders.
Then Bea noticed something on the laptop.
One folder remained unopened.
Its name contained only a date.
Five years earlier.
The night Clara disappeared.
“Damian.”
He turned.
She pointed.
He opened it.
There was one video.
Security footage.
Damian pressed play.
The image showed an underground parking garage.
Clara appeared.
She was running.
Richard followed.
Then another man stepped into frame.
Damian froze.
Beatrice looked from the screen to him.
“Who is that?”
Damian didn't answer.
The man on the recording was older.
Broad-shouldered.
Gray-haired.
A man Damian had buried seven years earlier.
His father.
Vittorio Costello.
Beatrice whispered, “I thought your father was dead before Clara disappeared.”
“He was.”
They stared at the impossible recording.
Then the figure turned toward the camera.
Damian leaned closer.
The timestamp flickered.
Someone had altered it.
Or someone had altered the story Damian had believed about his own family.
A line of text appeared at the bottom of the video.
IF DAMIAN SEES THIS, PHASE TWO HAS FAILED.
Beatrice felt cold.
Damian read the next line.
ACTIVATE CLARA.
The screen went black.
Neither moved.
Richard's betrayal was no longer the biggest secret in the Costello family.
May you like
Somebody had been preparing for Damian to discover the truth.
And whatever “activate Clara” meant, it had just begun.
