Chapter 2 - THE RED ROOM
Julian stared at the security alert.
The timestamp was less than ten seconds old.
He opened the mansion surveillance application.
The screen loaded.
Then froze.
A gray message appeared.
CAMERA OFFLINE.
He checked another camera.
Offline.
Then another.
Offline.
Every camera in the west wing had stopped transmitting.
Julian’s pulse quickened.
He called his head of security.
No answer.
He called again.
Still nothing.
Martha lay beside him beneath heated blankets.
The oxygen mask fogged with every shallow breath.
Julian lowered the phone.
“Mother.”
Her eyes opened.
“Who has been going into the red room?”
Martha looked toward the paramedic.
Then toward the front of the ambulance.
She appeared afraid to speak.
Julian took her hand.
“You can tell me.”
Martha pulled the oxygen mask slightly away.
“Bianca has a key.”
“That room has been locked for nine years.”
“She made a copy.”
“How?”
“From your office.”
Julian’s stomach tightened.
He kept the original key inside a concealed drawer in his home office.
Only three people knew about it.
Julian.
Martha.
And his late father’s attorney, Vincent Hale.
Bianca had never been told.
At least not by Julian.
“What did you see in there?”
Martha’s breathing became uneven.
“Boxes.”
“What kind of boxes?”
“Medicine.”
“Papers.”
“Photographs.”
She swallowed.
“And a machine.”
“What machine?”
“I don’t know.”
“It copied your voice.”
Julian stared at her.
“What do you mean it copied my voice?”
Martha’s fingers tightened around his.
“I heard you speaking.”
“But you were in New York.”
“I called you.”
“You said you had never said those things.”
Julian remembered the call.
Three weeks earlier.
Martha had phoned him after midnight.
She had been terrified.
She claimed she heard his voice through the wall telling Bianca to place her in a care facility.
Julian had assured her no such conversation had happened.
Bianca had later suggested the incident proved Martha was suffering auditory hallucinations.
Julian had believed that too.
Now he understood.
Someone had played a recording generated from his voice.
Someone had been creating evidence of Martha’s supposed mental decline.
“Did Bianca know you heard it?”
“Yes.”
“What did she do?”
“She gave me tea.”
Martha closed her eyes.
“When I woke up, I was on the floor.”
The paramedic looked over.
“Sir, she needs to keep the mask on.”
Julian replaced it gently.
His phone vibrated again.
This time, the message came from Bianca.
PLEASE DON’T LET HER ACCUSATIONS DESTROY US.
A second message followed.
I LOVE YOUR MOTHER, EVEN IF SHE HATES ME.
Julian read the words twice.
Then a third message arrived.
YOU KNOW SHE ISN’T WELL.
Julian typed a reply.
I know.
He stared at the screen before sending it.
The message felt like betrayal.
But he needed Bianca calm.
He needed her to believe the lie still worked.
Bianca answered almost immediately.
COME HOME AFTER THE HOSPITAL.
WE NEED TO TALK ALONE.
Julian slipped the phone back into his pocket.
At St. Catherine’s Medical Center, Martha was taken through the emergency entrance.
Julian stayed beside her until a nurse blocked the treatment room.
“We need space.”
“I’m her son.”
“You can wait right outside.”
Julian reluctantly stepped into the corridor.
A doctor arrived twenty minutes later.
Dr. Elena Grant was in her early forties.
She had treated Martha twice before.
Julian trusted her.
“She inhaled some water,” Dr. Grant said.
“But her lungs sound better than I expected.”
“We’re keeping her overnight.”
“Is she in danger?”
“Not from the drowning.”
Dr. Grant looked down at the chart.
“But her bloodwork is concerning.”
Julian’s body went still.
“What did you find?”
“A sedative.”
“A strong one.”
“Enough to cause disorientation, slowed reaction, memory gaps, and loss of balance.”
Julian pictured Bianca beside the pool.
Martha’s heavy nightgown.
The bruise around her wrist.
“What sedative?”
“Flunitrazepam.”
Julian knew the name.
Not because he had used it.
Because his pharmaceutical division had once evaluated a company that manufactured controlled sedatives overseas.
“Could it have come from prescribed medication?”
“Not from anything listed in her medical record.”
“Could it make someone look like they have dementia?”
“Repeated exposure could cause confusion.”
“Especially in someone her age.”
Julian clenched his fists.
“How long has it been in her system?”
“We can estimate recent exposure.”
“But we cannot tell you how long she has been receiving it without previous samples.”
Julian thought of every strange incident from the past two months.
Martha forgetting a lunch appointment.
Martha falling asleep during dinner.
Martha calling him and sounding disoriented.
Martha insisting Bianca moved objects around the house.
Martha accusing staff members of entering her room.
Each time, Bianca had been there.
Patient.
Concerned.
Helpful.
Julian felt disgusted with himself.
“Can you document everything?”
Dr. Grant studied his face.
“Do you suspect someone gave it to her intentionally?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Julian looked through the glass panel in the treatment-room door.
Martha lay beneath white sheets.
She looked small.
Fragile.
But she had fought to survive.
“My fiancée.”
Dr. Grant’s expression changed.
“Then I’m required to report possible elder abuse.”
“Do it.”
“I also recommend security.”
Julian called Detective Aaron Cole.
Cole had been Julian’s closest friend since college.
He had spent eighteen years with the city police department.
Julian had once helped fund a trauma center for officers after Cole was wounded in a robbery investigation.
Their friendship had survived money, marriage, death, and long periods of silence.
Cole answered on the second ring.
“You sound bad.”
“I need your help.”
“Where are you?”
“St. Catherine’s.”
“Is Martha okay?”
“Someone tried to drown her.”
There was a pause.
“Who?”
“Bianca.”
Cole did not ask if Julian was certain.
He knew Julian’s voice.
“What happened?”
Julian told him everything.
The scream.
The pool.
The threat.
The pills.
The red room.
The sedative.
Cole listened without interrupting.
When Julian finished, Cole spoke quietly.
“Do not confront her.”
“I haven’t.”
“Good.”
“I already called the duty lieutenant.”
“An elder-abuse investigator will come to the hospital.”
“What about the mansion?”
“I’m heading there.”
“The cameras are down.”
“Then don’t go inside alone.”
Julian looked toward the elevator.
“I’m not waiting.”
“Julian.”
“Someone is in my house right now.”
“Someone may be destroying evidence.”
“Exactly.”
“That is why you wait for me.”
Julian ended the call.
Cole called back immediately.
Julian ignored it.
He entered Martha’s room.
She was awake.
A nurse adjusted her intravenous line.
Julian kissed her forehead.
“I need to go back to the house.”
Fear flashed across Martha’s face.
“No.”
“I have to find what she hid.”
“Julian, don’t.”
“Detective Cole is meeting me.”
That was almost true.
Martha looked toward the nurse.
Then motioned for Julian to lean closer.
“There is something else.”
“What?”
“Your father knew.”
Julian’s breath caught.
“Knew what?”
“Not about Bianca.”
“About the red room.”
“He said the room should never be opened unless someone tried to take the company from you.”
Julian stared at her.
“My father died before Bianca and I met.”
Martha nodded.
“He was afraid of someone else.”
“Who?”
Martha opened her mouth.
The lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then the room went dark.
The heart monitor continued beeping on emergency power.
The nurse cursed softly and reached for a flashlight.
A red alarm began flashing above the door.
Julian turned toward the corridor.
People were shouting outside.
Then his phone rang.
The caller ID displayed Martha’s home number.
His mansion landline.
Julian answered.
No one spoke.
He could hear breathing.
Slow.
Controlled.
Then Bianca’s voice came through the line.
“You should have stayed home, Julian.”
The call ended.
The lights returned.
Julian ran into the corridor.
A hospital security officer stepped from the stairwell.
“Sir, you need to remain on this floor.”
“What happened?”
“Someone pulled the fire alarm in the east wing.”
Julian looked back at Martha’s room.
A distraction.
He rushed to the elevator.
Cole called again.
This time, Julian answered.
“I’m at your mansion,” Cole said.
“The front gate is open.”
“I never leave it open.”
“I know.”
“Where is Bianca?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
Cole lowered his voice.
“But there’s a black van parked behind the west wing.”
“No plates.”
“And the red-room door is open.”
Julian entered the elevator.
“Don’t go in without me.”
Cole was silent.
“Cole?”
“I’m already inside.”
A sound exploded through the phone.
Not a gunshot.
A heavy crash.
Then Cole swore.
“What happened?”
“Someone was here.”
“Was?”
“The window is open.”
“I found crates of medication.”
“Files with Martha’s name.”
“And photographs of you.”
Julian pressed the elevator button repeatedly.
“What photographs?”
“Surveillance photographs.”
“Your office.”
“Your bedroom.”
“Board meetings.”
“Some go back five years.”
Julian felt the floor shift beneath him.
He had known Bianca for only three.
Cole continued.
“There’s a laptop running.”
“Someone was deleting files.”
“Can you stop it?”
“I’m trying.”
Julian heard keys clicking.
Then silence.
“A folder just opened.”
“What’s in it?”
Cole did not answer immediately.
“What is it?”
“Julian.”
Cole’s voice sounded different.
“There’s a video.”
“Your father recorded it two days before he died.”
Julian gripped the phone.
His father had died from an apparent heart attack in this mansion.
“What does he say?”
Cole inhaled slowly.
“He says his death will not be natural.”
“And he names the person he believed would kill him.”
Julian could barely speak.
“Who?”
Cole answered.
“Vincent Hale.”
May you like
His father’s attorney.
The only other person who knew where the red-room key was hidden.
