Chapter 10 - The Ghost in the System
"What is it?" I asked, stepping forward, instantly sensing the sudden shift in the air. "Julian, what's on the screen?"
Julian didn't answer right away. His fingers hovered over the glass surface of the tablet as if he were touching something toxic. The screen displayed a single, looping video file timestamped just three minutes ago, originating from an internal security camera located deep within the mansion's underground archives—a level of the estate that even Julian had believed was permanently sealed.
"That's impossible," Julian whispered, his voice trembling in a way I had never heard before—not when Marcus threatened him, not when his car went off the cliff.
I rushed to his side, leaning over the armrest to look at the display.
The video showed a dimly lit concrete corridor beneath the foundations of the mansion. At the end of the hall stood a heavy steel vault door—a door Julian's father had supposedly installed to store personal family heirlooms before his death.
But the vault door wasn't locked. It was standing wide open.
And stepping out of the shadows into the camera's lens was a figure wearing a heavy wool coat, carrying an old, battered leather briefcase—a briefcase identical to the one Julian's father had disappeared with twenty years ago during the storm.
"Who is that?" I breathed, a cold chill running straight down my spine. "Marcus is in federal custody. Who else has access to the sub-basement?"
Julian slowly raised his head, staring out into the dark, sprawling gardens as if expecting someone to step out from behind the manicured hedges.
"That's not Marcus," Julian whispered, his voice catching in his throat. "That's... that's impossible."
"Julian, tell me!" I grabbed his shoulder, panic clawing at my chest. "Who is on that screen?"
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Before Julian could answer, the outdoor intercom system mounted beside the terrace doors crackled to life with a burst of heavy static. Then, through the speakers, a slow, gravelly voice echoed across the quiet night garden—a voice that belonged to a man who had supposedly died in a fiery plane crash two decades ago, the very man whose empire we had just spent the entire night tearing apart.
"Good evening, son," the speaker hissed, the audio distorting in the wind. "Did you really think it was that easy to close the ledger?"
