The Recording

I pressed the play button. The recording was grainy, shot in the low light of Room 402 with the lapel camera I'd worn under my suit. The audio was filled with the static of the fire alarm I'd later trigger, but Margaret's voice cut through it all—thin, brittle, but undeniably hers.

"I am Margaret Hawthorne. The date is..." A pause, then a shaky breath. "It's Wednesday. Arthur thinks I don't know the days. He thinks the drugs take everything. But I count the pills. I count the meals. I know."

On screen, Margaret looked directly into the lens. Her eyes, magnified by the camera angle, were wells of sorrow and steel.

"I am being held against my will in the Sunnyvale Care Facility. My husband, Arthur Hawthorne, forged my medical records. He paid Dr. Thorne to declare me incompetent."

The ballroom was silent. Not a fork clinked. Not a whisper. Even the police officers escorting Arthur paused, their grip on him loosening just slightly as they watched the screen.

"He did this because I found out. About the building. About the pour."

On screen, Margaret leaned forward.

"He didn't just steal my company. He killed our son. Arthur Junior. He was born on January 15th, 2016. He lived for four hours. And then my husband took him."

A collective gasp went through the room. I saw Corinne in the front row, her hand flying to her throat, her face draining of color. She looked at the ring on her finger—the ring she had flaunted—and then at Arthur.

"He put him in the foundation," video-Margaret whispered. "Void A. The northeast corner. I saw the plans. I marked them."

The video cut to black.

I stepped back from the podium. My hands were shaking, but I clasped them together to hide it.

"We have the blueprints," I said, my voice projecting into the stunned silence. "We have the birth certificate. And we have the witness."

I pointed to Tessa.

Tessa stepped forward, flanked by the officers. She looked small in her coat, but she raised her chin.

"I was there," she said. Her voice was quiet, but in the acoustic perfection of the ballroom, it carried. "I saw him take the baby. I saw the concrete trucks."

Arthur roared. It was a primal, animal sound. He thrashed against the officers holding him.

"She's lying! They're all lying! It's a conspiracy! My son is trying to steal my company!"

He looked at Julian.

"Tell them!" Arthur screamed. "Tell them it's a lie!"

Julian stood frozen. He looked at his father, then at his mother, then at me. He looked at the ruin of his family, laid out for the world to see.

He walked over to the microphone.

He looked at Arthur.

"It's not a lie," Julian said.

He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper. The crumpled, wine-stained liability agreement Arthur had tried to make him force me to sign.

"He tried to make me sign this," Julian said, holding it up. "To cover it up. To make me an accomplice."

He tore the paper in half. Then in half again. He let the pieces flutter to the floor like confetti.

"I'm done," Julian said. "I'm done protecting you."

The officers shoved Arthur toward the exit. He was still screaming, still fighting, but the fight had gone out of the room. The spell was broken. The king was dead.

I looked at Margaret. She was leaning heavily on the podium, her energy fading fast. But she was smiling. A small, sad smile.

"We did it," she whispered.

"We did," I said.

I looked at Julian. He was staring at the floor, at the shredded paper. He looked like a man who had just cut off his own arm to escape a trap.

I walked over to him.

"Julian," I said.

He looked up. His eyes were empty.

"I didn't know about the baby," he said. "I swear, El. I knew he was... bad. But I didn't know about the baby."

"I believe you," I said. And I did. He was weak, yes. But he wasn't a monster.

"What happens now?" he asked.

"Now," Margaret said, stepping between us. "We finish it."

She looked at Corinne, who was trying to slip out the side door.

"You," Margaret said.

Corinne froze.

"That's my ring," Margaret said.

Corinne looked down at her hand. She tried to pull the ring off, but her fingers were swollen with panic.

"I... Arthur gave it to me," she stammered. "I didn't know."

"Keep it," Margaret said. "It's cursed anyway."

She turned back to the crowd. To the board members who were frantically texting their lawyers. To the socialites who were already posting the video to social media.

"This company," Margaret said, her voice gaining strength, "was built on lies. And tonight, it ends."

She looked at me.

"Elena," she said. "Call the demolition crew."

"What?" I asked.

"The tower," she said. "We're tearing it down."

"Margaret," I said. "We can't just tear down a skyscraper. It's... it's a billion dollars of real estate."

"I don't care," she said. "My son is in there. And I want him back."

She looked at Julian.

"You're the CEO," she said. "Make the call."

Julian looked at his mother. He looked at the building around us. The glass. The steel. The monument to his father's ego.

He pulled out his phone.

"Get me operations," he said into the receiver.

I watched him. I watched the man I had married destroy his inheritance with a single phone call.

We had the weapon. The truth.

Now we needed the getaway.

Because Arthur wasn't the only one with secrets. And tearing down the tower wasn't just about finding a body.

It was about what else was buried in the concrete.

I looked at the ledger I was still clutching. Page 42.

*Void B.*

*Occupancy: 2.*

Arthur Jr. wasn't alone down there.