Chapter 22 - Whispers on the Stairwell
The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, casting long, erratic shadows across the concrete floor as I rose slowly to my feet, the digital voice recorder clutched tightly in my right hand. The metal pry bar remained discarded by the pillar, just out of reach.
"Leo," a voice called out from the top of the dark stairwell. It was soft, breathless, and unmistakably female. Not Clara—Clara’s voice possessed a sharp, demanding edge even when she tried to sound innocent. This voice carried a hesitant, trembling quality that sent a completely different kind of chill down my spine.
"Who's down there?" I demanded, my voice echoing off the concrete walls. "Show yourself."
A figure stepped cautiously out of the kitchen shadows and onto the top step. Even in the dim ambient light filtering down from the upper floor, I recognized the silhouette instantly. It was Sarah, Marcus’s younger sister—the one person in their family who had consistently refused to take their side during the bitter custody hearings, quietly slipping me text messages of support when her brother thought no one was looking.
"Don't come up yet, Leo," Sarah whispered urgently, her hands gripping the wooden handrail so hard her knuckles were white. "Please. You need to listen to me from down there."
"Sarah? What are you doing here at one in the morning? How did you even get past the security gate?"
"I used Marcus’s old master key before he changed the codes," she said, her chest rising and falling rapidly as if she had sprinted all the way from the street. She took two slow steps down the stairs, her eyes wide with undisguised terror. "Marcus isn't just trying to ruin you legally anymore, Leo. After what happened at the housewarming party—after you outsmarted him with the drink—he lost his mind. He’s completely unhinged."
I took a step forward, holding up the recorder. "I found the cache in the foundation, Sarah. I heard the audio file of him and Clara plotting the whole thing. I have the proof."
Sarah shook her head violently, tears glistening in her eyes under the harsh white lights. "That recording... it’s a trap, Leo. It’s *not* the only thing he left in this house."
The words hung in the damp air, heavy and suffocating. Before I could ask what she meant, a loud, rhythmic pounding started up outside the basement window at ground level—the small, rectangular egress window looking out toward the driveway.
I spun around. Through the grimy glass of the basement window, illuminated by the flashing red and blue strobes of a sudden arrival of police cruisers, a man’s face pressed against the pane, grinning maniacally into the dark.
May you like
It was Marcus. And in his hand, he was holding a red plastic gas can.
---
