Chapter 7 - The Voice from the Monitor
Before Brian could touch the wiring harness, a small speaker mounted above the console crackled to life. A dry, raspy chuckle filled the room—the unmistakable voice of Harold Cole.
"I see you’ve found my little study, children," the old man’s voice echoed, distorted slightly by the intercom. "Always poking around where you don't belong, Brian. Just like your mother, thinking you can fix what was never meant to be repaired."
"Where is the master code, Harold?" Brian shouted into the empty air, stepping toward the speaker. "The gas is already venting into the lower ducts. If this house goes up, you're sitting in a cruiser fifty feet away. You'll catch the backdraft."
"Let it burn," Harold replied calmly, his tone as casual as if we were discussing the weather over Sunday roast. "A structure built on flawed foundations deserves to collapse. You thought you could take my daughter away from me, move her into a house I didn't approve of, and raise a child without my supervision? I simply reclaimed what was mine."
I grabbed the intercom mic from its magnetic cradle. "You burned Chloe’s face, you psychopath! She’s nine years old! What did she ever do to you?"
A brief silence hung over the speaker, heavier than the cold air in the room. When Harold spoke again, his voice lacked its previous arrogance; it sounded brittle, almost hollow.
"The box wasn't meant for her," Harold muttered. "It was meant for you, Clara. You were the one who insisted on opening every package before the proper hour. She merely took your place. A tragic casualty of your impatience."
"The code, Harold," Miller interrupted, stepping in front of us and drawing her sidearm. She pointed the barrel directly at the camera lens mounted in the corner of the ceiling. "You have thirty seconds before I authorize the tactical team to breach the perimeter with heavy explosives. If they blow this foundation, your entire life's work—every blueprint, every patent, every drop of your precious research—goes up in smoke with it."
The countdown on the LED screen blinked: *01:15... 01:14...*
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On the monitor, we saw Harold shift in his seat inside the police cruiser. He looked out the window at the snow-covered roof of our house, his expression unreadable. For a second, I thought he was going to let the timer run out—that his obsession had finally eclipsed his own survival instinct.
Then, a green light flashed on the console.
