THE SECRET BEHIND THE WALLS

The footsteps stopped outside the door.

I didn’t breathe.

Neither did Raymond.

The handle turned.

I grabbed the blanket and pulled it higher over his chest.

The door opened.

Christopher stood there.

Behind him was Dr. Wallace.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Christopher’s eyes moved across the room.

Then stopped on me.

“Why are you still awake?”

I forced a yawn.

“Theodore wouldn’t settle.”

He glanced at my son.

The baby slept against my shoulder.

Christopher stepped inside.

“Everything all right?”

I nodded.

“Of course.”

His gaze shifted to Raymond.

The old man’s eyes were closed.

His body perfectly still.

Christopher walked toward the bed.

He placed two fingers against his uncle’s neck.

I nearly stopped breathing.

“Pulse?”

Dr. Wallace checked.

“Stable.”

Christopher smiled.

“Not for long.”

The words were quiet.

But Raymond heard them.

I knew because one of his fingers twitched beneath the blanket.

Christopher didn’t notice.

He turned toward me.

“Go downstairs.”

I held Theodore тιԍнтer.

“Now.”

I left.

But I didn’t go downstairs.

The moment they entered the adjoining study, I slipped behind a service door and waited.

Their voices carried through the narrow corridor.

“…five days is too long.”

Wallace answered, “If I increase the dose again, he’ll actually die.”

“I don’t care.”

A pause.

Then Christopher said something that made my blood turn cold.

“Once the will is opened, everything belongs to me.”

I pressed a hand over my mouth.

Everything.

Not just the company.

The mansion.

The transportation empire.

The accounts.

But why?

Why was Christopher so certain Raymond’s will would give him everything?

Then I remembered Raymond’s words.

There’s something in the walls.

I waited until the voices disappeared.

Then I returned to the bedroom.

Raymond was awake.

I locked the door.

“Tell me where.”

His eyes shifted toward the wall beside the fireplace.

I followed his gaze.

An enormous oil painting hung there.

A family portrait.

Raymond stood in the center.

Christopher beside him.

And behind them…

a woman.

I stepped closer.

“Who is she?”

Raymond blinked once.

“Your sister?”

Two blinks.

“Your wife?”

Two.

“Someone who worked here?”

One blink.

My skin prickled.

I touched the frame.

Raymond’s fingers moved frantically.

“No.”

I froze.

He stared at the wall.

Then at the floor.

Then back at the painting.

I understood.

Not the painting.

The wall.

I moved it slightly.

Nothing.

I tried again.

A faint click sounded behind the frame.

My heart raced.

The panel shifted.

Behind it was a narrow compartment.

Inside lay a black metal box.

I pulled it free.

Raymond watched me.

The box was locked.

There was no key.

Then I noticed something taped beneath it.

A small envelope.

My name was written across the front.

Not Raymond’s.

Mine.

NORA BENNETT.

My fingers began to tremble.

I opened it.

Inside was a pH๏τograph.

A woman holding a newborn baby.

I recognized the woman immediately.

Because I’d seen her before.

In the family portrait.

She was Raymond’s late wife.

But the baby in her arms wasn’t Christopher.

It was a little girl.

On the back of the pH๏τograph was one sentence.

If anything happens to me, find my daughter.

I stared at Raymond.

His eyes filled with tears.

“Where is she?” I whispered.

He closed his eyes.

Then opened them.

He looked directly at me.

One blink.

I felt the floor disappear beneath my feet.

“Me?”

One blink.

I shook my head.

“No.”

His fingers тιԍнтened around the blanket.

I stepped backward.

“You’re saying I’m your daughter?”

One blink.

The room blurred.

The poor woman who had taken a job because she couldn’t afford rent was suddenly standing inside the home of the man whose fortune was worth hundreds of millions.

But the shock wasn’t the inheritance.

It was the date written beneath the pH๏τograph.

The date of my birth.

Exactly.

I looked at Raymond.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His lips moved.

I leaned closer.

“Because…”

His voice was almost gone.

“…they’ve been looking for you.”

A sound came from the hallway.

The lock on the bedroom door clicked.

Someone had just locked us inside.

Then Christopher’s voice came through the door.

“I know you found the box.”

My blood froze.

Raymond’s eyes widened.

Christopher laughed softly.

“And now I know exactly where you are.”

I looked at the black box in my hands.

Then at Raymond.

Then at my sleeping son.

The man who had been dying for seven weeks suddenly squeezed my wrist with surprising strength.

His lips formed three silent words.

Run. Don’t trust anyone.

And then the lights went out.