Chapter 2 - THE MUSIC BOX UNDER THE FLOORBOARDS
The shattered glass of Maren’s champagne flute sparkled violently against the Persian rug.
Nobody moved. The twenty elite guests at the dinner table held their collective breath, their eyes darting between the mafia boss and the nine-year-old girl clutching his jacket.
Silas’s voice dropped to a dangerous, terrifying whisper. "Where is it, Sophie?"
Maren stepped forward, her heels crunching on the glass. "Silas, darling, this is absurd. She’s a child. She’s making up stories because she’s upset about the garden—"
"Quiet," Silas said. He didn’t raise his voice, but the word carried the weight of a loaded gun. He looked down at Sophie. "Show me."
Sophie’s small hand gripped mine tightly. She looked up at me, her eyes pleading for permission, or maybe protection. I squeezed her hand back.
"I'll go with you," I whispered.
Silas nodded at me, a silent command to stay close to his daughter. We walked out of the dining room, leaving the suffocating silence behind. Maren tried to follow, but Silas blocked her path, his broad shoulders forming an impenetrable wall.
We went up the grand staircase to Sophie’s bedroom. It was a beautiful room, painted in soft lavenders, but it felt cold. Sophie walked over to her dollhouse, a massive wooden replica of the mansion itself. She didn't open the doors. Instead, she pushed the entire heavy structure aside with her small shoulders.
Underneath the rug, there was a loose floorboard.
"Mommy showed me this hiding spot," Sophie whispered, prying the wood up. "She said if I ever needed to keep a secret safe from the monsters, I should put it here."
She pulled out a small, tarnished silver music box. It didn't belong in this grand house. It looked cheap, worn, like something bought at a flea market.
"Open it," Silas said, stepping into the doorway. Maren was right behind him, her face pale, her breathing shallow.
Sophie lifted the lid. There was no ballerina inside. Just a small, black digital voice recorder.
Maren lunged. "Don't!"
She tried to snatch it, but Silas caught her wrist in mid-air. His grip was so tight I saw her wince. He took the recorder from his daughter, his eyes locked on Maren.
"Silas, please," Maren gasped, dropping her polished facade. "It’s not what it sounds like. We were just arguing. Women argue!"
Silas pressed play.
Static hissed through the quiet bedroom. Then, Elena’s voice. Soft, desperate, and terrified.
“I’ll give you the money, Maren. Just don’t tell him. If Silas finds out what you did, he’ll kill you.”
Then, Maren’s voice, sharp and cruel, completely unlike the sweet tone she used downstairs. “He won't kill me, Elena. Because if I go down, I’m taking your sweet little secret with me. Does Silas know he isn't the only man you've been seeing?”
The recording clicked off.
Silas stared at the black plastic in his hand. His chest rose and fell in heavy, jagged breaths.
"A lie," Maren cried out, tears spilling down her cheeks. "She was lying to protect herself! She was the one cheating, Silas! I was trying to protect you!"
Silas slowly turned to her. "You didn't meet me until two years after she died, Maren. That was your story. But my wife knew you."
Maren backed away, hitting the doorframe. "I... I can explain."
"You have exactly one minute," Silas said, his voice terrifyingly calm, "before I throw you out of this house without your coat."
"Wait!" Maren screamed, pointing a shaking finger directly at me. "Ask the maid! Ask Hannah!"
My heart stopped. Silas turned his piercing gaze toward me.
"Ask Hannah where she was the night Elena’s car went off the bridge," Maren hissed, a venomous smile spreading across her lips. "Because she didn't just start working here last year. Did you, Hannah?"
Silas looked at me. "What is she talking about?"
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I stared at the silver music box in Silas's hand, my blood running completely cold. Because taped to the bottom of the box, hidden from view, was a tiny photograph of my seven-year-old son, Leo.
And Silas hadn't seen it yet.
