Chapter 2 - The Sound in the Walls
“Catherine!” Harrison shouted into the phone, the noise of the town car’s engine roaring as the driver hit the highway ramp. “Catherine, answer me!”
A muffled scuffle echoed through the speaker, followed by the rustle of fabric. Then Catherine’s breathless whisper cut through the static. “Mr. Caldwell... I’m in the service pantry. I locked the deadbolt, but someone is inside the foyer.”
Harrison felt a wave of icy dread wash over him. “Is it Travis?”
“I didn't see his face,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly but laced with an undeniable undercurrent of steel. “I heard the side door open with a master key. Then the floorboards creaked right outside the kitchen. I slipped into the pantry and slid the bolt just before they walked past. They’re searching the lower level.”
“Stay exactly where you are,” Harrison commanded, his voice tight. “The pantry door is reinforced solid oak, but do not make a sound. I’m twenty-five minutes away. Evelyn has already dispatched our private security unit, and the local police are being notified.”
“They aren't looking for silverware, Mr. Caldwell,” Catherine murmured, her breaths shallow and controlled. “They just went upstairs toward your study. I heard the study door click open.”
Harrison closed his eyes, his mind racing. The study desk was an antique, commissioned by his grandfather, featuring a hidden spring-loaded compartment behind the center drawer. Unless someone knew the precise wood-carving seam to press, they would have to take an axe to the mahogany to find the thumb drive. But Travis Reed was an expert in high-end residential security; he carried commercial bypass tools and electronic sniffers.
“The drive is hidden,” Harrison said. “He won't find it in five minutes.”
“He doesn't have to search blind,” Catherine whispered back. “Mr. Caldwell... before the cameras cut out, I noticed something odd on the ceiling molding above your bookshelves. A tiny pinhole reflection. I thought it was an insect at first, but when I took the wide-angle photograph, the flash caught a micro-lens.”
Harrison froze. “A hidden camera? In my private study?”
“It wasn't installed by your usual company,” she said. “It had a tiny green diagnostic LED blinking behind the plaster trim. Travis didn't just come here this morning to look at perimeter cameras. He came to verify that his private feed was working. Whoever is paying him has been watching that room for days. They saw you hide that flash drive, Mr. Caldwell. They knew exactly where you put it.”
A cold fury ignited in Harrison’s chest. For six weeks, he had been working late into the night in that very room, reviewing bank statements, tracing dummy shell corporations in Panama and Cyprus, and compiling the dossier against Victor Ashford. If Victor had an unauthorized visual feed in that room, he hadn't just discovered the investigation—he had watched Harrison build the gallows.
The twenty thousand dollars on the desk hadn't been an afterthought. It was a calculated setup. If Catherine was caught on the official security footage taking the bait, Victor’s crew could walk in, seize the thumb drive, and claim the housekeeper ransacked the office and stole confidential company property along with cash.
“Catherine,” Harrison said quietly, “did you take the bag with you into the pantry?”
“Yes,” she replied. “The money is still in my canvas tote. Along with my phone and the spare key fob to your grandfather’s desk.”
Harrison’s eyes widened. “You have the key fob?”
“You left it on the kitchen counter two weeks ago after you cleaned your ring, remember? You told me to store it in the lockbox. I never put it back in the study because you told me nobody was allowed inside.” Catherine paused, her breathing slowing down as her natural composure returned. “Mr. Caldwell, I hear footsteps coming back down the central staircase. Heavy boots. He’s moving toward the kitchen.”
“Quiet now,” Harrison warned, his knuckles white against his knee. “Don't breathe.”
Through the phone line, Harrison listened to the terrible intimacy of an intruder’s progress. The slow, rhythmic thud of work boots stepping from the runner rug onto the polished kitchen tile. The clink of ceramic mugs shifting slightly on the marble island. Then, the heavy footsteps stopped right outside the pantry door.
A hand tested the brass knob. It rattled once. Twice.
Silence descended over the line, suffocating and thick.
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Then came a low, familiar voice through the wood: “Catherine? Come on out, sweetheart. We know you’re in there, and we know you’ve got the bag.”
It was Travis Reed.
