Chapter 2 - The Missing Six Minutes
The heavy oak door of the mansion’s security office clicked shut, sealing out the faint echoes of the ongoing party outside. The room smelled of ozone, hot circuit boards, and stale coffee. Three massive monitors cast a sickly blue glow across Daniel’s weathered face as he manipulated the digital timeline of the estate’s closed-circuit surveillance system.
Julian stood behind him, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes locked on the primary screen.
“Rewind to 8:10 p.m.,” Julian instructed, his voice flat.
Daniel tapped a series of keys. The high-definition footage flickered to life. On screen, the service hallway was quiet, lined with antique sconces and polished wainscoting. At precisely 8:12 p.m., the door opened, and Allison Reed walked into view. She carried a crystal pitcher, filling a clean glass with water, took a small sip to test it, and then placed it on the tray before walking out toward the grand ballroom.
“Keep rolling,” Julian said.
Four minutes elapsed on the timecode. At exactly 8:16 p.m., the side door opened again.
This time, the figure stepping into the frame was unmistakable. Victoria Langford glided into view, wearing her burgundy silk gown. She glanced quickly down both ends of the empty hallway, ensuring she was unobserved. She reached into her designer handbag, withdrew a small, amber glass vial, and leaned over the service table. With swift, practiced precision, she uncapped the vial, poured a few drops into the water glass Allison had just left behind, and quickly tucked the container away.
Then, she took a step backward—and deliberately shifted her body so that her torso and hands were entirely blocked by a decorative marble pillar just outside the camera’s primary lens.
“Hold,” Julian snapped.
Daniel paused the playback. “She’s standing in the blind spot of Camera Four. She knew exactly where the lens cut off.”
“Check Camera Seven,” Julian ordered, his tone darkening. “The wide-angle overhead in the west corridor.”
Daniel switched feeds to Camera Seven, fast-forwarding to the same timestamp. But instead of a clear view of the table from above, the screen suddenly distorted into a frozen, looping artifact, before jumping forward six full minutes.
“The feed didn't just cut,” Daniel said, his brow furrowing as he checked the server logs. “It was manually scrubbed. Someone accessed the local mainframe via terminal override and deleted six crucial minutes of footage.”
“Who has permission to erase security recordings?” Julian asked. The question was a death sentence waiting for a name.
Daniel’s fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the administrative access logs. “Only two people. Myself... and Harold Kent, the mansion’s operations manager.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Bring Harold to me. Now.”
Daniel reached for his radio, barking orders to the roving patrol guards stationed throughout the sprawling estate grounds. A minute passed. Then two. The radio crackled with static before a guard’s nervous voice broke through.
“Boss... we checked Harold’s quarters. His personal belongings are gone. His car is missing from the south garage. He’s gone.”
Julian stared at the frozen image of Victoria hiding behind the marble pillar. The trap was closing, but the architects were running. Before Julian could mobilize a perimeter search, his private encrypted cell phone buzzed violently against his desk.
He glanced at the caller ID. It wasn't an internal line. It was originating from St. Joseph’s Hospital—the emergency ward where Allison Reed had just been taken.
Julian pressed accept and brought the phone to his ear.
“Mr. Ricci?” A trembling, exhausted voice came through the speaker. It was Allison.
“I’m listening, Allison. Speak clearly. Are you safe?”
“I... I think so,” she whispered, coughing lightly. “The doctors gave me an antidote. But Mr. Ricci, I had to call you. I was too terrified to say it in front of everyone downstairs, but... Victoria threatened me yesterday.”
Julian went completely still. “Victoria threatened you? Over what?”
“I accidentally walked past your private records room on the second floor,” Allison explained, her voice cracking with fear. “The door wasn't fully latched. I saw her standing inside. She was holding a heavy leather document case while speaking quietly with a man. I didn't get a good look at his face, but... I remember one very distinct detail.”
Julian’s heart hammered against his ribs, though his face remained a mask of ice. “What detail?”
“He was wearing an expensive gold wristwatch,” Allison said softly, “with a striking, dark green dial.”
May you like
Julian stopped breathing. He knew that watch intimately. There was only one person in Tampa who wore that exact timepiece—a custom Swiss chronometer gifted to him on his thirtieth birthday.
It belonged to Michael Ricci. His own younger brother.
