Chapter 6 - BENEATH THE OLD STAIRS
On Monday morning, Detective Ortiz came to our apartment carrying a warrant and a question.
“Claire, did you recognize the handwriting on the note inside the package?”
I had spent the weekend staring at a photograph of a house I'd never visited, trying to make sense of a basement nobody was supposed to see. Now I shook my head.
“No. But the key looks like the ones used for old storage cabinets at the mansion.”
Ortiz nodded. “We're treating it as possible evidence, not as an invitation. My team is going back to Willow Lake. I wanted to tell you before the reporters found out.”
Lily stood at the kitchen counter making toast. “Does this mean the man in the video might still be alive?”
“We hope so,” Ortiz said. “We don't know enough yet.”
It was the kindest honest answer she could give.
I went with her to the station later that morning to provide a formal statement about the package. Rebecca was waiting in the interview room, twisting a ring she'd worn since childhood. She looked exhausted. Every new clue forced her to revisit the two years when she had believed her brother's silence meant he no longer wanted her.
“I keep thinking about Grandma's basement,” she said. “We weren't allowed down there because the stairs were unsafe. I thought that's why Carlo locked the door.”
“Maybe the stairs really were unsafe,” I said. “That wouldn't explain the note, though.”
Rebecca sighed. “Everything about that house has two meanings now.”
Ortiz entered and laid photographs on the table. Her technicians had confirmed the silver key was cut for an older type of steel cabinet. A locksmith associated with Carlo's property office had ordered matching locks just before the shooting. The records showed that the work was billed to Northstar Protective Services rather than the family trust.
“Why would a security company pay for cabinets in a summer house?” Rebecca asked.
“That's one of the questions we're asking,” Ortiz replied.
The search began that afternoon. Police examined the basement in protective equipment because the walls showed signs of water damage and the electrical system was old. Beneath the stairs stood three steel cabinets. One contained cleaning chemicals and broken tools. The second held ordinary property records. The third had a damaged lock that appeared to match the key sent to me.
Inside, investigators discovered two external drives, a stack of medical invoices, and a cardboard folder labeled FAMILY TRANSITION. The folder listed potential signatories for a proposed transfer of voting rights in the DeLuca holding company. Julian's signature line was blank. Serena's and Carlo's names were already printed beneath positions labeled temporary trustee and family representative.
The documents alone could not show anyone had planned a shooting. But they showed that someone had prepared for Julian to lose control of his own business before he was injured.
When Julian learned what had been found, he asked to speak with Rebecca privately. She called me afterward, sounding shaken.
“He said he used to think losing his ability to walk was the worst thing that happened that night,” she told me. “Now he says the worst thing was letting people convince him he had no right to ask questions.”
“Does he believe you?”
“He does. I think that's what makes it hurt.”
At dusk, Ortiz received a call from the team examining the storage facility shown in the video. Harbor Storage did have a Unit 14. It had been rented six months earlier under a shell company. The officers found the unit empty, except for a folding chair, a length of rope, and traces of adhesive on one wall where a sign appeared to have been removed.
“It was staged,” Ortiz told us later. “That doesn't mean the threat wasn't real. It means the location may have been selected to misdirect us.”
“Was Martin ever there?” I asked.
“We can't determine that yet.”
The news spread through the mansion as a rumor long before the police made any statement. Old staff members began calling one another. Some were frightened; others were angry. An elderly gardener named Mr. Alvarez contacted Ortiz to say he remembered a van arriving at the east gate the night Julian was shot. He had been trimming hedges on a late shift and saw Serena wave the vehicle forward. He had been too afraid to mention it afterward.
He gave a recorded statement, then asked whether he would lose his pension.
Julian answered that question through his attorney: no employee would lose wages, benefits, or references for assisting the investigation. The promise was put in writing and sent to the staff, including those who had already resigned.
It was the first time I'd seen a man with that much power use it to make telling the truth easier instead of harder.
That night, a thunderstorm swept through Chicago. I was staying with Lily and Mrs. Chen while the police continued to assess the threats. Rain hammered the fire escape and filled the gutters. I couldn't sleep. At midnight, I walked into the kitchen and found Lily hunched over a statistics assignment.
“Why are you still awake?” I asked.
“Because I can't make sense of this formula. And because I don't want you sitting alone worrying.”
I sat beside her, feeling a sudden rush of love so painful it made my eyes sting.
“Dad called earlier,” she said. “He wants to know if Mr. DeLuca is okay.”
“He's trying.”
“Are you?”
I thought about the steady ache in my back, the apartment I'd barely been able to afford, and a future that had vanished with one violent afternoon.
“I'm trying too.”
The next morning, Naomi Brooks phoned with news about my case. She had obtained payroll records showing I was on duty when I was injured, along with the mansion's camera footage and the medical evaluation. She was preparing a claim for compensation and had advised me not to accept any private settlement without time to review it.
“Serena's attorneys may argue that you are motivated by money,” Naomi said. “But receiving compensation for harm isn't dishonorable. Your injuries are real, and you have bills.”
I stared at my father's latest statement on the table. “I'm beginning to understand that.”
At eleven, Rebecca asked whether I would meet her at a small bookstore near the river. Ortiz approved the visit after checking that the location was secure and that officers could remain nearby without drawing attention. Rebecca arrived wearing jeans, sneakers, and a soft gray sweater. For once, she looked like an ordinary thirty-year-old woman rather than a witness hiding from her own family.
“Julian used to take me here when I was fourteen,” she told me. “He'd buy me one book and then secretly buy himself five.”
We wandered between shelves of mysteries and gardening guides. She told me about her art-history classes, a fiancé she'd broken up with during the years of isolation, and the aunt who had quietly sent Christmas cards even when no one else spoke to her. I told her about Lily's scholarship interview and Dad's stubborn determination to walk a few steps with a therapist.
In the café at the back, Rebecca stopped smiling.
“I need to tell you something,” she said. “Before you hear it from the police.”
My heart began to race. “What?”
“Martin Bell called me the day before the attack. He said Northstar was preparing a staged breach to frighten Julian into signing control away. He didn't say anyone planned to shoot. I thought he was exaggerating.”
“Did you tell Julian?”
“I called his office. Serena answered and said he was in meetings. I left a message. Then I went to Milwaukee.”
She looked down at her cup. “If I'd driven back that night, maybe I could have stopped it.”
“You didn't arrange the shooting.”
“But I had a warning.”
“You acted on what you knew. Serena stopped the message.”
Rebecca covered her face. “I've spent two years replaying the phone call. It feels different knowing Julian never heard it.”
I reached across the table. “It should feel different. It means your brother wasn't choosing not to listen.”
For a while we said nothing.
Then her phone rang. It was Ortiz, asking Rebecca to come to the station immediately. Investigators had recovered a fragment of audio from one of the basement drives. On it, a man's voice instructed a second person to make sure the operation caused “lasting compliance.”
The audio was incomplete. But one other sound was clear: a woman saying, “Julian won't sign if he can still make decisions by himself.”
Rebecca knew the voice before Ortiz played it a second time.
“Serena,” she whispered.
Then a third voice spoke, measured and unmistakable.
“Keep the sister away afterward.”
It belonged to Carlo DeLuca.
May you like
When I listened to the recording later under Ortiz's supervision, I understood why the police had been so careful about it. Voices could sound certain to people who desperately wanted answers, and memories could betray even honest witnesses. The audio needed expert examination before it could carry the weight of an accusation in court. But I had heard Carlo speak at dozens of family dinners. He always lowered his voice on the last word of a sentence, as if it were a secret meant only for the person sitting closest. I heard that same habit in the final instruction, and it made the hairs on my arms rise.
======================================================================
