Chapter 5: The Architect’s Secret
857 Words
The floorboards didn’t just creak; they felt like they were screaming under my weight. Outside my bedroom door, the slow, heavy thud-thud of the guard’s boots was a constant reminder: I wasn't home. I was in a cage that used to have my name on the door.
I knelt by the balcony, my breath coming in short, jagged hitches. Mateo had told me exactly where to look. Third plank. Left side. My fingernails tore as I pried at the mahogany, the wood biting back until it finally gave way with a sharp crack.
Underneath the dust was a small bundle wrapped in black cloth.
My hands shook so hard I almost dropped it. Inside wasn't a weapon, it was a silver key and a tiny earpiece. There was a note, too. Not a long letter, just a few words in a sharp, confident scrawl:
“I built this house for a man who thought he could buy the world. I left myself a back door. Use the vent behind the vanity. He’s hosting the gala downstairs. You have twelve minutes during the toast. Don't be late, Clara. I’m right here.”
The air left my lungs. Mateo hadn't just studied my father; he had literally laid the bricks of this fortress. He knew the secrets of this house better than the man who paid for it.
Downstairs, the faint, muffled sound of a violin started up. The "celebration" of my return. The party for the girl they tried to kill.
I shoved the heavy vanity aside, the metal feet screeching against the floor. Behind it was a small brass grate. I slid the silver key in. It turned with a smooth, silent click that made my stomach flip.
I crawled into the dark, narrow shaft. It was tight the expensive silk dress they’d forced me into for the "reunion" snagged on the cold metal. I didn't care. I crawled until I reached the vent directly over my father’s private study.
I looked through the slats.
The room was warm, lit by the soft glow of lamps that made everything look peaceful. My father stood by the window, swirling a glass of bourbon. Next to him was a man I’d never seen, tall, thin, with a nasty scar running from his ear down to his collar.
"The girl is a problem, Elias," the scarred man said. His voice was like sandpaper. "No one survives the Dead Zone. If Vega let her go, he’s using her."
"I know," my father said. His voice was flat. No love. No relief. Just business. "That’s why she won’t last the week. Once the news cameras leave, we’ll say she had a 'tragic relapse.' The trauma was just too much for her."
He took a slow sip of his drink. "But first, I need that drive. If she has it, I’ll break her until she tells me where it is."
I squeezed my eyes shut, my forehead resting against the cold metal. That little girl inside me the one who used to bring him coffee and tell him she loved him died right then. I didn't feel sad. I just felt empty. And then, I felt a hot, bubbling rage.
"Senator? They’re waiting for the toast," a voice called from the hall.
My father straightened his tie, flashed that fake, perfect smile in the mirror, and walked out. The heavy doors clicked shut.
Now.
I kicked the vent open and dropped to the rug. I didn't make a sound. Mateo told me the ledger wasn't in the safe my father was too smart for that. It was in the floor.
I scrambled to the corner, counting the marble tiles. I found the one with the tiny chip. I jammed the silver key into the seam and twisted.
A small door popped open. Inside was a black leather book and a pile of hard drives.
"I'm in," I whispered into the earpiece.
"I hear you, Clara," Mateo’s voice came through, low and steady. It was the only thing keeping me from passing out. "Take the book. Leave the drives. He checks the drives every day, but he hasn't touched that book in a year. He thinks he's the only one who knows it exists."
I grabbed the ledger and shoved it into a hidden pocket in my dress. As I turned to climb back up, the door handle rattled.
"Senator? I forgot my..."
The door swung open. It was the scarred man.
He froze. His eyes went from the open floor to me the girl in the torn dress standing in the middle of the room.
"You," he spat, reaching for the gun at his hip.
My heart didn't just beat; it slammed against my ribs.
"Mateo," I breathed, my voice trembling. "I'm caught."
"Door to your left, Clara," Mateo’s voice lost its calm. It was a command now. "The bookcase. Third shelf. Pull the gold book. Now!"
I didn't think. I ran.
- Writer
