Chapter 3 - THE MUSIC BOX
The third week of September brought a violent coastal storm that rattled the tall leaded glass windows of the estate and turned the surrounding oak forest into a thrashing sea of grey shadows.
By 8:30 p.m., the power flickered twice before dying completely.
The emergency generators kicked on three seconds later with a deep, vibrating hum that echoed up from the sub-basement, plunging the main house into a dim dimness lit only by red emergency wall fixtures and battery-powered sconces.
I was cleaning the second-floor library when the storm reached its peak.
Thunder cracked directly over the roof, shaking the stone structure so hard that a crystal vase on the sideboard vibrated against the wood. Simultaneously, a high, piercing shriek tore through the upper hallway.
It wasn't a child throwing a temper tantrum. It was a scream of pure, unadulterated terror.
I dropped my dust cloth and ran into the corridor.
The scream had come from Isabella's room.
I reached her door at the same time as Margaret Ellis, who was carrying a stack of fresh towels.
“Isabella!” Margaret called out, dropping the towels and rattling the heavy brass doorknob. It was locked from the inside, as always. “Isabella, sweetheart, it's just the thunder! Open the door!”
Inside, furniture was being overturned. Heavy objects crashed against drywall. Glass shattered.
“Get Mr. Whitmore!” Margaret yelled down the hall to a passing guard. “He has the master key!”
I didn't wait for Edmund.
Across from Isabella's room was a small service access panel used by the house maintenance crew to inspect the antique plumbing pipes. I remembered seeing it during my orientation tour.
I yanked the wooden panel open. It was dark, dusty, and smelled of dry rot and old iron, but it ran directly behind the bedroom wall, connecting to a decorative ventilation screen right above Isabella's walk-in closet.
I squeezed my frame through the narrow opening, squirming through the dust and old insulation, my heart pounding in my ears.
“Isabella!” I called out through the wooden slats of the vent.
I saw her through the screen.
The seven-year-old girl was huddled in the far corner of her room, curled into a tight ball between her nightstand and the wall. Her room was in complete disarray. Books were pulled off shelves. A lamp lay shattered on the rug.
And on the floor in the center of the room lay a large, ornate wooden object that had snapped open upon impact.
It was an antique music box—crafted from heavy dark mahogany with inlaid mother-of-pearl flowers and brass feet. The porcelain ballerina that normally stood on its velvet pedestal had snapped off, rolling across the floorboards.
Isabella was staring at the shattered music box with wide, unblinking eyes, hyperventilating.
“It broke,” she sobbed, clutching her knees to her chest. “It broke, and now he’s going to know. He’s going to know!”
“Isabella, look at me!” I called out from the vent, pressing my face against the slats.
Her head snapped up. She looked at the wall near the ceiling.
“It’s Clara,” I said, keeping my voice low, firm, and warm. “Emma’s mom. I’m behind the wall, honey. You’re safe. The storm just knocked the power out.”
“The box...” she wept, pointing a trembling finger at the mahogany casing on the floor. “The phone inside... it chimed when it hit the ground!”
My blood ran cold.
The phone inside.
At that moment, a heavy key clicked into the brass lock of her bedroom door.
The door swung open hard, slamming against the wall.
Edmund Whitmore stepped into the room, holding a heavy tactical flashlight. Behind him stood Margaret and two armed security guards.
Edmund’s eyes didn't go to the frightened child cowering in the corner.
They went straight to the shattered music box on the carpet.
His face transformed. The warm, grandfatherly administrator vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by a mask of sharp, lethal panic.
He moved faster than a man his age should have been capable of moving. He dropped to one knee, reaching out to grab the broken mahogany box.
“Don't touch it!” Isabella screamed, pressing her back harder against the wall.
Edmund froze for a microsecond, his pale gray eyes darting toward the open door where Margaret and the guards stood. He caught himself, forcing a soft, soothing expression back onto his face, though his hands were trembling as he gathered the wooden pieces.
“It's alright, Miss Isabella,” Edmund said, his voice smooth as silk, though a light bead of sweat glinted on his forehead in the flashlight beam. “It's just an old heirloom. It fell during the storm. I'll take it downstairs to my office and fix it for you.”
“No!” Isabella shrieked. “Don't take it! He calls on it! He calls at nine!”
Margaret stepped into the room, looking bewildered. “Who calls, Isabella? Sweetheart, who calls you?”
Edmund stood up quickly, clutching the shattered music box against his chest, tucking the loose brass gears and velvet lining into his cardigan pocket.
“She’s hysterical from the storm, Margaret,” Edmund said quickly, his voice tight. “Call Dr. Sterling. Tell him we need a mild sedative for her. I will dispose of this dangerous debris so she doesn't cut herself on the glass.”
He turned to leave the room.
From my hidden vantage point inside the ventilation shaft, I saw something slide out of the velvet lining of the broken music box and fall onto the deep pile rug beneath the edge of the bed.
Edmund didn't notice it. He was too focused on getting out of the room with the mahogany frame.
It was a tiny, sleek black electronic device—no larger than a credit card, ultra-thin, with a single glass screen and a specialized satellite antenna chip taped to its back.
A burner phone.
Edmund swept out of the room, locking the door behind him to keep Margaret out while he went to fetch the doctor.
I backed out of the narrow maintenance shaft as fast as I could, my elbows and knees scraping against the wood, dust blinding my eyes.
I burst out into the secondary hallway, pulled my clothes straight, and ran down the stairs toward the staff wing.
Emma was sitting on our bed, holding Barnaby, watching the rain hit our window.
“Mommy?” she asked.
I didn't answer. I knelt down, pulled my small flashlight from my apron, and looked at my daughter.
“Emma,” I whispered, taking her small hands in mine. “I need you to stay in this room with Margaret. Can you do that for me?”
“Did the music box fall?” Emma asked softly.
I stared at her. “How did you know about the music box?”
Emma looked down at her teddy bear. “The phone man talks through it. He tells Isabella that if she tells her daddy, her daddy will go to sleep and never wake up.”
A cold horror washed over me, so absolute it made my fingers numb.
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Someone was using a hidden satellite phone inside a seven-year-old girl’s room to terrorize her every night at nine o'clock—threatening to murder her father if she ever spoke a word.
And the only person who had access to that room, the only person who held the master key, was Edmund Whitmore.
