Chapter 4 - Whispering Through the Dark
By ten o'clock that evening, the mansion had settled into a heavy, unnatural quiet. The estate guards maintained their silent positions down the long wood-paneled corridors, their dark suit jackets hiding submachine guns and tactical radios.
Inside the master sickroom, the main overhead lights were completely doused. Only the amber glow of the small bedside lamp illuminated the dark room, casting long, dramatic shadows against the black-and-gold walls.
Dr. Shaw had retired to the staff quarters downstairs, leaving Grace on the night shift. Grace sat in a high-backed leather armchair three feet from the bed, a clipboard in her lap, monitoring the digital readouts on the heart screen.
Liam appeared to be asleep. His dark wavy hair was damp with sweat, his broad chest rising and falling in slow, heavy rhythms. The white medical bandages across his ribs stretched slightly with every breath. But Grace knew he wasn't sleeping. His fingers twitched rhythmically against the dark sheets every time the house creaked in the night wind.
Grace stood up softly, her sneakers making no noise as she picked up a fresh IV bag of saline solution. She reached up to hang it on the stainless-steel pole beside his bed.
As her hand reached the top of the pole, her knee brushed against the corner of Liam’s pillow.
A small, leather-bound notebook slipped out from beneath the dark silk casing, sliding onto the mattress right beside his bandaged hip.
Grace froze.
Liam did not move, but his breathing paused for a microsecond.
Grace looked down at the notebook. It was worn, its black leather cover scuffed at the edges. Tucked into the pages was a folded piece of architectural tracing paper protruding slightly from the side. On the visible corner of the paper, drawn in precise black ink, was a schematic of the Mercer estate—specifically, a detailed cross-section of the master bedroom suite.
Red ink marked the exact location of the bed, the door, and the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. But beneath the window line, written in small, hurried handwriting, was a single phrase: DO NOT LET THEM SEE THE GLASS FLOOR.
Grace’s breath caught in her throat.
Before she could process the words, a massive, hot palm wrapped around her forearm.
Grace looked down. Liam’s icy blue eyes were open, staring up at her through the dark shadows. His grip was firm, but unlike earlier that afternoon, there was no violence in his touch—only a desperate, urgent intensity.
"You're too curious for your own good, Grace," Liam whispered, his voice deep and raspy from the night air.
"And you're hiding something that could get us all killed," Grace whispered back, refusing to pull her arm away. "What is under this room, Liam?"
Liam stared at her for a long, heavy moment. Slowly, he reached up with his other hand, taking the black notebook from the bed and sliding it back beneath his pillow.
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"If you want to live to see Friday," Liam said softly, his blue eyes gleaming in the amber light, "you will stop looking at the walls, stop listening to the glass, and just change my bandages."
Suddenly, the green pulse line on the medical monitor flatlined into a solid, continuous high-pitched tone.
