Chapter 6 - THE ROOM BEHIND THE WALL
Dante took me back to the estate the following afternoon.
Not as an employee.
As someone he trusted enough to tell the truth.
We walked through the west corridor.
The windows were covered.
The carpet smelled faintly of old wood.
At the end stood a locked door.
Dante held the key.
For several seconds, he didn't move.
Then he opened it.
The room beyond was small.
A former music studio.
Dust covered the furniture.
A broken metronome stood on a shelf.
The walls were lined with acoustic panels.
And in the corner sat an old recording console.
I stared.
“Why was this sealed?”
Dante looked around.
“Because Elena died here.”
My throat tightened.
He continued.
“There was an electrical fire.”
“Was Leo here?”
Dante shook his head.
“He was in the nursery.”
I looked toward the console.
“Did anyone investigate?”
“Of course.”
“What did they find?”
Dante hesitated.
“Faulty wiring.”
I approached the console.
Its surface was covered in dust.
Several cables had been cut.
A small red indicator light flickered when I touched the power switch.
I stopped.
“Dante.”
He approached.
“What?”
“This still has power.”
He frowned.
“Impossible.”
I pointed toward the back.
“Someone reconnected it.”
His expression changed.
We found a small digital recorder inside a cabinet.
Its memory card was missing.
Dante stared.
“Who has access to this room?”
“Only family.”
I looked at him.
“Who had the key?”
He was silent.
Then whispered:
“Isabella.”
My stomach tightened.
Dante looked toward the doorway.
For the first time, I saw fear in his face.
Not anger.
Fear.
Because the woman who had helped raise his son might have been hiding something about his wife's death.
We left the room.
Dante locked it.
Then called his attorney.
He requested an independent review of the original fire investigation.
He also asked for a security audit of the estate.
I watched him.
He was choosing evidence over instinct.
It mattered.
Later, Leo found us in the library.
He looked at Dante.
“Did you open Mommy's room?”
Dante knelt.
“Yes.”
Leo stared.
“It's loud in there.”
Dante frowned.
“It's quiet now.”
Leo shook his head.
“Not now.”
I sat nearby.
“Do you mean you remember loud sounds from before?”
Leo nodded.
“Beep. Beep. Beep.”
He tapped the table.
Then hummed the angry song.
Dante went pale.
I looked at him.
“What?”
His voice trembled.
“That isn't a song.”
I stared.
He continued.
“It's the security alarm code.”
Silence.
Leo pressed his hands over his ears.
Then whispered:
“Aunt Isabella made it stop.”
Dante looked at his son.
For the first time, he understood.
Leo hadn't been inventing a melody.
May you like
He'd been remembering the night his mother died.
And someone had spent four years hoping nobody would listen.
