Chapter 3 - THE HOUSE OF GLASS AND SILENCE
The estate on Mercer Island did not look like a home; it looked like a museum built for a ghost.
A heavy iron gate swung open to reveal a winding driveway lined with towering pine trees, leading to a sprawling glass-and-stone mansion overlooking Lake Washington. Security cameras blinked silently from every corner of the property. Guards in dark suits patrolled the perimeter with earpieces tucked behind their ears.
When the black town car dropped Emma and Lily off at the private guest house—a stunning, fully furnished two-story cottage fifty yards from the main mansion—Lily squealed with delight, running upstairs to claim a bedroom with a balcony.
For two days, the arrangement seemed like a dream.
Emma introduced structure into Toby’s afternoons, but not the rigid, cold structure Mrs. Gable had enforced. She brought Lily and Toby to the muddy garden behind the kitchen. She let them paint with watercolors on the back patio. She made real pancakes in the main estate kitchen, despite the head chef’s initial horrified gasps.
For the first time in five years, laughter echoed through the high-ceilinged halls of the Hayes estate.
William was rarely there. He arrived late at night in silent black sedans, his silhouette visible through the glass study windows until two or three in the morning. He was a man running away from his own house, burying himself under global tech mergers and board meetings.
On Thursday afternoon, while the children were playing hide-and-seek in the grand library, Emma began organizing the family room drawers. Toby had asked for his sketchpad, which he said was kept in the lower cabinet of his mother’s old music room.
The music room was a place the staff avoided. A grand piano sat in the center, covered in a white linen sheet. Dust settled lightly over framed photographs on the mantelpiece.
Emma opened the lower cabinet near the bookshelf.
Inside rested stacks of old photo albums, leather journals, and boxed keepsakes belonging to the late Elizabeth Hayes. As Emma shifted a heavy wooden box to look for the sketchpad, a hidden compartment beneath the false bottom slid open.
A small silver voice recorder tumbled out onto the rug, accompanied by a thick, yellowed envelope sealed with red wax.
Emma picked up the envelope. Written across the front in a delicate, elegant cursive was a single name:
For Toby, when he is old enough to understand.
Emma’s heart gave a sharp, uneasy thud. She looked toward the open doorway, checking if any staff were nearby. The house was quiet.
She held the voice recorder in her palm. It was an old-fashioned digital dictaphone, the screen dark from a dead battery.
Beside it, the wax on the sealed envelope had cracked slightly from age. Through the tear in the paper, Emma could see handwritten lines:
...William doesn't know about the Zurich accounts. If anything happens to me, do not let Arthur take the boy. The plane isn't safe...
Emma froze.
The plane isn't safe.
Her blood ran cold. Five years ago, Elizabeth Hayes had died in a private plane crash over the Cascade Mountains. The official NTSB report had cited severe weather and mechanical icing. It had been ruled a tragic, unpreventable accident.
So why had Elizabeth written the plane isn't safe before she got on it?
Footsteps echoed softly down the hardwood corridor outside the music room.
Emma hastily shoved the recorder and the envelope into the deep pocket of her cardigan just as William walked through the doorway.
He had removed his tie, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking exhausted. He stopped when he saw her standing near the covered piano.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “What are you doing in here?”
“Looking for Toby’s sketchpad,” Emma said smoothly, keeping her hands steady as she patted her cardigan pocket invisibly. “He said it was in the cabinet.”
William walked into the room, his gaze lingering on the covered piano. A heavy, painful shadow settled over his face.
“This room stays closed,” William said quietly. His tone wasn't angry, but it carried an ancient, suffocating weight.
“She was very beautiful,” Emma said softly, gesturing toward a framed photo on the mantel that hadn't been covered—a picture of Elizabeth smiling on a sailboat, her hair wild in the wind.
William looked at the photo, his jaw flexing. “She was reckless.”
Emma blinked, surprised by the harshness of the word. “Reckless?”
“She thought she could outrun everything,” William said, his voice dropping into a dark, raspy pitch. “She thought money bought immunity from consequences.”
He turned back to Emma, his blue eyes sharp and intense. “Toby shouldn't be in this room, Ms. Parker. Lock it when you leave.”
He turned and walked out, leaving Emma standing alone in the quiet music room.
May you like
In her pocket, the silver voice recorder felt as heavy as a lead weight.
She wasn't just caring for a grieving boy anymore. She was sitting on top of a multi-billion-dollar grave.
