Chapter 2 - THE ARCHITECT OF RUIN
The house was silent now,
save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.
Tick,
tock,
the countdown to my total erasure.
I crept toward the door,
pressing my ear against the wood.
I could hear Martha in the kitchen,
the clatter of plates,
the ritualistic cleaning of the evidence.
She knew.
She always knew.
Every Saturday,
she washed the drugged bowls,
and ironed the sheets where I lay unconscious.
I felt a surge of rage,
hotter than any fever.
I moved to the small desk in the corner,
searching for anything I could use.
I found a spare key,
hidden inside a hollowed-out book.
My luck was turning,
or perhaps Frank was getting careless.
I unlocked the door,
the sound masked by a sudden burst of thunder outside.
The hallway was dim,
lit only by the flickering orange glow of the streetlights.
I avoided the creaky floorboards,
my memory of this house serving as my map.
I reached Frank’s study,
the inner sanctum of his corruption.
The door was locked,
but I used a credit card,
sliding it into the latch with a precision I didn't know I possessed.
Inside,
the room smelled of mahogany and old secrets.
I turned on my phone’s flashlight,
shielding the beam with my hand.
There it was,
the heavy steel safe behind the portrait of his ancestors.
I didn't need the combination;
I needed the ledger on his desk.
I flipped through the pages,
my eyes scanning the names and numbers.
Roger,
Victor,
The Mayor,
The Chief of Police.
Dates,
amounts,
and a column labeled “Collateral.”
Under “Collateral,”
I saw my own name.
Next to it,
the dates of every first Saturday of the month.
I took photos of every single page,
my hands shaking so much I had to take them twice.
Suddenly,
I heard a floorboard creak behind me.
I froze,
my heart leaping into my throat.
“Hannah?”
It was Brian.
He was standing in the doorway,
holding a glass of water.
His face was a mask of confusion,
then realization,
then a terrifying,
cold blankness.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,”
he said,
his voice devoid of any emotion.
“I woke up,
Brian,”
I replied,
stepping back toward the window.
“I woke up to everything.”
He didn't run to me,
he didn't apologize.
He simply set the glass down on the desk.
“You shouldn't have done that,
Hannah,”
he whispered.
“My father is going to be very disappointed.”
“Your father is a monster,”
I spat,
“And you are his puppet.”
Brian took a step toward me,
his hands reaching out.
“It was for us,”
he lied,
the words tasting like ash.
“The money,
the connections,
it was to build our future.”
“A future built on my body?”
I screamed,
though it came out as a strangled whisper.
He lunged for me,
but I was faster.
I swung the heavy brass lamp from the desk,
striking him across the temple.
He fell with a heavy thud,
blood blooming on his forehead.
I didn't stop to check if he was breathing.
I grabbed the ledger,
my phone,
and the recording pen.
May you like
I ran for the back stairs,
the shadows stretching out like claws to grab me.
