Chapter 5 - THE COLLAR UNDER THE FLOORThe scream came from the east wing.
Julian moved first.
Not with panic. Men like him did not waste motion on panic. He crossed the library in three long strides, drawing a pistol from beneath his jacket so smoothly it seemed to appear from the air.
Liam grabbed Maisie’s hand. “Stay behind me.”
Maisie did, but Cyrus did not.
The dog surged ahead, not toward the scream exactly, but toward the sound beneath it—a faint scrape, a retreating step, a door closing too carefully.
Maisie heard it too.
“Left,” she said.
Julian looked back.
“The scream was straight ahead,” Liam said.
“The person running went left,” Maisie answered.
Julian changed direction instantly.
That was when Victor tried to leave.
Cyrus noticed.
He stopped mid-stride and turned his head.
Victor froze with one foot angled toward the opposite hallway.
Julian did not even look at him. “If you take another step, cousin, make peace with God faster than I made peace with grief.”
Victor stayed.
Two guards appeared and flanked him.
The east hallway smelled of lemon polish, cold air, and broken porcelain. A maid stood shaking beside an overturned table, her hand pressed against her mouth. Blue and white fragments lay across the marble.
Julian lowered the gun slightly. “Who was here?”
The maid trembled. “No one, sir. I was carrying the vase and Cyrus—”
Cyrus growled.
Not loud.
Enough.
The maid began to cry.
Maisie stepped forward slowly. “You don’t have to lie for whoever scared you.”
The maid’s breath hitched.
Julian’s voice softened by one dangerous degree. “Nora.”
The maid looked at him as if softness frightened her more.
“There was a man,” she whispered. “I didn’t see his face. He came from the service hall. He told me if I made noise, my son would not come home from school.”
Julian’s expression did not change, but the men behind him went rigid.
Maisie turned her head toward the service hall. “He’s gone down.”
Liam blinked. “Down?”
“There are stairs.”
Julian stared at her. “The basement.”
He moved again.
Cyrus followed, but this time he stayed close to Maisie, pressing his shoulder against her leg as if guiding her away from obstacles. Liam watched, stunned and unwillingly grateful.
The basement stairs were narrow. The air grew colder with every step. Machines hummed behind walls. Pipes clicked. Somewhere water dripped in a rhythm like a clock.
Maisie hated basements.
Since losing her sight, underground spaces felt like being swallowed by the world. Sound bounced wrong. Air sat heavy. Corners arrived without warning.
Cyrus felt her fear.
He slowed.
Maisie rested one hand on his back. “I’m okay.”
He huffed once, disbelieving.
At the bottom, Julian opened a steel door with a keypad. Inside was not a basement filled with wine or storage.
It was a room of records.
Filing cabinets. Hard drives. Locked drawers. Security monitors showing every angle of the estate.
Liam whispered, “Of course mafia has a secret room.”
Julian ignored him.
One monitor was dark.
Julian pointed. “Garage feed.”
A guard checked the system. “Cut eight minutes ago.”
Maisie tilted her head.
She heard something behind the wall.
A faint beep.
Regular.
Hidden.
“Stop moving,” she said.
Everyone stopped.
The beep continued.
Maisie followed it with her head. “There.”
She pointed toward a shelf of old photo albums.
Julian removed them one by one. Behind the shelf was a small panel, nearly invisible unless someone knew where to press. A guard opened it.
Inside lay a black device no larger than a deck of cards.
And beside it, another collar.
Older.
Burned along one edge.
Cyrus made a sound Maisie had never heard from him before.
Not a growl.
A whine.
Julian reached for the collar, then stopped.
His hand shook.
Only once.
Maisie understood before anyone spoke.
“That was his collar,” she said. “From the car.”
Julian’s voice was low. “It was destroyed.”
“No,” said a guard. “It was logged into evidence after the bombing.”
Julian turned slowly. “By whom?”
Nobody answered.
They did not need to.
Victor.
Liam leaned over the hidden device. “What is that?”
“A transmitter,” Julian said. “Short-range trigger backup.”
“For what?” Liam asked.
Maisie heard the answer in Julian’s silence.
The car bomb.
The room became too cold.
Julian picked up the burned collar with both hands. Inside the cracked leather was a small metal plate. Someone had carved into it after the fire.
C H.
Clara Hart.
Cyrus pressed his head against Julian’s leg.
For three years, Julian had believed his dog survived the explosion and lost his mind from grief.
Now the truth lay in his hands.
Cyrus had not simply survived.
He had carried evidence.
And someone had hidden it inside Julian’s own house.
A phone rang.
Everyone flinched except Julian.
The sound came from Victor’s pocket upstairs, echoing faintly through the open stairwell.
Then Julian’s own phone vibrated.
He looked at the screen.
A video message.
Unknown number.
He opened it.
The video showed Maisie sitting in the arena dirt the night before, Cyrus beside her.
Then the image cut to a schoolyard.
Children moving between buses.
A boy with Liam’s eyes laughing beside a fence.
Liam’s face changed. “That’s my cousin’s kid. That’s Nora’s son’s school.”
The video cut again.
This time to Maisie’s apartment building.
The camera lingered on the front door.
Then text appeared.
STOP DIGGING, JULIAN.
OR THE GIRL WHO CALMED YOUR DOG BECOMES THE NEXT GHOST HE FAILS TO SAVE.
Liam grabbed Maisie and pulled her close.
Cyrus barked once, a sound so violent it shook dust from the ceiling.
Julian Hart looked at the burned collar in his hand.
Then he looked at Maisie.
For the first time since she had met him, his voice held no command, no arrogance, no performance.
Only a promise.
“No one touches her.”
Upstairs, Victor laughed.
May you like
Softly.
As if he had been waiting for Julian to say exactly that.
