Chapter 3: What the Recording Knew
Emma walked back into the ballroom with her face composed and her heart hammering.
The party had not changed.
The music was still playing.
The guests were still laughing.
William was still standing near the fireplace, a glass of bourbon in his hand, nodding at something a man in a grey suit was saying.
He looked relaxed.
Untouched.
Completely unaware.
Emma crossed the room toward him, weaving between guests, keeping her pace steady.
She didn't want to run.
Running would bring Isabella.
"Mr.
Sterling." She stopped beside him.
"I'm sorry to interrupt.
Could I speak with you privately?
It's about the house."
William glanced at her, mildly surprised.
He turned to the man beside him.
"Excuse me one moment."
He followed Emma to the far edge of the room, near the tall windows overlooking the garden.
"What is it?" he asked.
His voice was pleasant.
Distracted.
"Ethan is in the house," Emma said.
William's expression didn't change immediately.
Then a small crease appeared between his brows.
"What do you mean?
He's in Maine.
Isabella arranged—"
"He's not in Maine, Mr.
Sterling." Emma kept her voice low.
"There's a door behind the painting in the staff corridor.
I heard him.
He said he wanted his dad."
William stared at her.
"That's not possible."
"I have it on my phone.
I recorded it." She held the phone toward him, her thumb hovering over the play button.
"Please.
Just listen."
He took the phone slowly, the way a person takes something they don't want to hold.
He pressed play.
The hallway sounds.
The faint crying.
Then Ethan's voice, thin and exhausted.
*Please…
I want my dad.*
William's face went very still.
Then Isabella's voice, smooth and controlled: *You heard pipes.
Old buildings make strange sounds.*
Then Emma's: *I know what I heard.*
Then Isabella: *William trusts me completely.
Who do you think he'll believe?
His wife — or the help?*
William lowered the phone.
His knuckles were white around it.
"Where," he said quietly, "is this door?"
Emma led him out of the ballroom.
The moment they stepped into the corridor, she saw that the baroque painting had been pushed back into place.
The wall looked exactly as it always had.
Seamless.
Ordinary.
William walked straight to it and shoved it aside with one hand.
The steel door was still there.
The keypad lock blinked green.
He stared at it.
"I didn't know this existed."
"The code," Emma said.
"Do you know it?"
"No." His jaw tightened.
"But I know who does."
He turned back toward the ballroom.
Emma followed, and when they stepped through the doorway, she saw Isabella immediately — standing near the champagne table, speaking to two women in evening gowns, laughing at something one of them had said.
She saw William coming.
Her smile stayed in place for exactly two seconds.
Then it didn't.
"William." She moved toward him, her hand already reaching for his arm.
"Is everything all right?"
"The door behind the painting," he said.
"Open it."
A beat of silence.
Just one.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Isabella." His voice dropped.
"Open the door."
She looked at Emma.
Something passed across her face — not fear exactly.
Something colder than fear.
"She's confused," Isabella said.
"She's been acting strangely all evening.
I was going to speak to you about it after the party."
"I have your voice on a recording," Emma said.
"Telling me that Ethan is not your concern.
That William would believe you over me." She paused.
"He's listening to it right now."
Isabella's champagne glass lowered an inch.
"Open the door," William said again.
"Or I call the police and let them open it."
The two women Isabella had been speaking with had gone very quiet.
A man nearby turned to look.
The music continued, but the small circle around them had stopped moving.
Isabella's eyes swept the room.
Then she reached into the small beaded clutch at her wrist and produced a slim silver key card.
She held it out to William without a word.
He took it and walked back toward the corridor without looking at her again.
Emma stayed.
She and Isabella stood three feet apart in the middle of the party, surrounded by people who were pretending not to watch.
"You should have stayed in the kitchen," Isabella said softly.
May you like
Emma said nothing.
But she didn't move either.
