Page 20 of 4th Silence (Schock Sisters Mystery #4)

Meg

T here isn’t an ounce of me that believes Alex is buying this Hartman Foundation nonsense. I see it in his eyes. That gleam. The hunger to know why we’re really here.

Good for him. As nutty as this field trip is, I love the sheer ballsiness of it. We’re solving this murder—no matter the cost.

Alex leads us into the foyer. Charlie gliding past him and pausing as he closes the door behind us.

The mansion is everything I expected, right down to the sweeping double staircase that curves up to the second floor. I love the symmetry it brings to the wide entry, but I’ll never understand the waste of space.

Still, the designer opted for a minimalist style—creamy white walls and gleaming wainscoting.

A massive chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling. Sunlight streaming through the glass wall over the twin front doors makes the crystals glitter with flecks of azure, emerald, and rose.

The design is simple, but the scale—the sheer formidability—tells you everything this family wants the world to believe about their wealth, their power, their privilege.

Untouchable.

At least until now.

Alex gestures left. “Let’s go in here.”

He strides into the oversized living room, where an area rug that probably cost more than my duplex muffles the sound of our footsteps on the hardwood.

A Vermeer hangs over the white stone fireplace. An interesting choice, considering Vermeer specialized in quiet domestic scenes of middle-class life—something the Hartmans, with their obscene wealth, would never grasp.

I point. “Vermeer.”

Alex gives a perfunctory nod. “My mother bought it at an auction. Not my favorite, but she likes it.” He gestures to the sofa. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything? A drink?”

We both decline and settle onto the oversized white sofa perpendicular to the fireplace. Alex sinks into one of the giant armchairs across from us. Like the foyer, this room is built to impress—from the soaring ceilings to the enormous windows and the furniture that screams grandeur.

Mary Hartman is no fool. She understands all too well how to use her money to intimidate. It annoys the hell out of me, knowing it has shielded them from a murder investigation.

“So,” Alex says, focusing on Charlie, “before you tell me more about this fundraiser idea, I have to say, I was appalled to see the headlines this morning. JJ’s one of my closest friends. It’s all rather shocking, no?”

Charlie, being Charlie, sits utterly composed, her face a bland mask, not a frown or raised brow in sight. “Clearly,” she says, “someone’s trying to destroy my reputation with this ridiculous accusation.”

Alex gives her a well-practiced crooked smile. “Too bad it’s not true. I’d have gotten to you before JJ.”

Ew. So much for JJ being his dear friend .

My sister lets out a feigned chuckle. If it were real, it would light up her face with her electric, open-mouthed smile that could power this entire house.

Instead, she locks eyes with Alex. “I’m sure you’ve heard that JJ’s out of the picture.”

What the hell is she doing ?

Flirting.

She’s flirting to disarm him.

After holding her gaze a beat longer, Alex shifts his attention back to me. “If you like Vermeer, my mother has another in the dining room.”

The dining room. If the floor plan in Mom’s files was accurate, it’s beside the kitchen, next to the door Mary walked out of in the security footage we watched this morning.

“Really?” I ask. “I’d love to see it.”

“Of course.” He points toward the hall. “Help yourself. Down there. Elena, our housekeeper, is in the kitchen—I’ll buzz her to let her know you’re coming.”

Smarmy Alex is trying to ditch me so he can cozy up to Charlie.

Fine. I’ll schmooze the housekeeper. See what I can find.

“Fantastic.” I rise and glance at Charlie. “I’ll be right back.”

She offers a wave, fully understanding the plan. “Take your time. I’m sure Alex and I can entertain ourselves.”

Blech.

I head down the hall, noting another classic I’d love to linger over, but…work to do.

I’ll give Mary this much—she’s got great taste in art.

The dining room is empty. Sure enough, a Vermeer hangs on the far wall, but I don’t have time to admire it. I move straight through the butler’s pantry and into the kitchen.

Also empty. No housekeeper.

Hmmm.

Crazy Train—Mom’s ringtone—blasts from my pocket. I check the screen where a text inquiring about lunch has popped up.

I ignore it, tuck it back in my pocket, and bring my attention to the kitchen.

Oversized windows overlook an expansive lawn. To the right sits the infamous cottage, its white paint gleaming in the sun like a beacon.

My phone rings again. Everybody Wants to Rule the World. Charlie’s ringtone. I slide it from my back pocket and take the call.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Her voice is so breathy, I nearly gag. “I’ve just been telling Alex I recently discovered the joy of ice hockey.”

Ice hockey?

That’ll be the day

“Oh-kay…”

I have no idea where this is going, but my sister is giving us an Emmy-worthy performance.

“Yes,” she continues, “Alex has a signed Wayne Gretzky hockey stick. Can you imagine? It’s in the trophy room in the basement. He’s offered to show it to me.”

The basement.

I glance out the window at the cottage. “By all means,” I tell her. “Go. I’ll enjoy the Vermeer a little longer. Meet you back in the parlor. Take your time.”

Please . Take your time .

Translation: stall him. Make him think he’s got a shot. Maybe he’ll let the wrong body part do his thinking long enough for me to slip to the cottage.

If luck is on our side—not that it happens much—we’ll be out of here before anyone monitoring the security video catches on.

I hang up. Seconds later, I hear Charlie’s voice drifting from the hall, then Alex chimes in, their conversation fading as they move deeper into the house.

I glance back at the still-empty kitchen and slip out the back door, easing it shut behind me. The snick of the lock makes me flinch. If it auto-locks, I’m sunk. Checking it, I twist the knob easily and let out a relieved breath.

Then I sprint like hell toward the cottage.

Less than thirty seconds later, I duck around to the back, out of sight from the main house. There must be a back door.

I hope.

I slow, panting from the run. I really need to work on my cardio.

A door. Perfect. I jog over and test the handle. Locked.

Damn it.

I step back, scanning. Six windows line the rear wall. I press my fingers against the glass of the first, push up. Nothing. Not even a wiggle.

I try the next. And the next.

My fingerprints are everywhere, but whatever. I have Charlie and Matt to clean up my mess from breaking and entering.

Third window. Please, please ?—

Unlocked.

I do my best, nudging the window up, my fingers sliding a couple times before I get enough of an opening to wedge my hand in and push it up.

I swing a leg over the sill and climb into a small bedroom with a full-sized bed and a dresser. A Rembrandt print hangs over the bed. Guess the cottage doesn’t rate an original.

Keep moving.

I shut the window behind me and head into a short hall that opens into a modest kitchen and living area. I make quick work of checking the hall closet, behind towels, and under blankets.

No purse.

That would have been way too easy. Mary is more brilliant than that. I move into the master bedroom, foregoing the closet and looking under the bed. I attempt to lift the mattress, but—yow—my muscles buckle under the weight. Way too heavy.

I peer around the room, my eyes locking on an air vent. Too small. A Sherman would never fit behind there.

Living room. Maybe it’s hidden in one of the chairs. I head that way. Just as I reach the end of the hallway, a knock sounds on the front door, and my insides curl.

“Hello?” a woman yells through the door. “Ms. Schock? Are you in there?”

Oh. Shit.

It must be Elena, the housekeeper.

“I saw you running,” she continues. “Is everything all right?”

No. Not all right. Not at all.

The distinct sound of a key sliding into the lock scrapes against my nerves, and my pulse slams.

Shit, shit, shit . In a few seconds, I’ll be face to face with the woman. I whip around, spot a door just off the kitchen.

The tunnel.

Alex told us about it connecting the cottage to the panic room under the main house. With no plan fully formed, I bolt for the door.

At the very least, maybe there’s a lock and I can keep the woman out, while I decide my next move.

Charlie is going to kill me.

I swing the door open, revealing a small landing and a staircase. There’s a light switch on the wall, but I don’t dare flip it. I duck in just as the deadbolt disengages.

Glory be, there’s a lock, so I flip it and draw a long breath. Focus, Meg.

“Ms. Schock?” the woman calls again.

As if I’d respond?

Still on the top landing, I slowly turn, holding the rail with both hands as I use my feet to feel my way down each step.

Step, step, step.

At this rate, it’ll take me an hour to get to the bottom, but I can’t risk the housekeeper seeing any light under the door.

As I make my way down, my brain locks on the idea that if someone hid a murder weapon, they wouldn’t stash it in a closet where any guest could discover it.

Step, step, step.

No. They’d hide it where no one would think to look. I keep moving, slowly descending.

At the bottom, I drag my phone out and risk using the flashlight. This far down, it should be safe.

In front of me, a cement tunnel stretches out. Wise Meg begs me to go back and get out now, but who knows if the housekeeper is still up there. But I may never get this chance again.

And there’s a murderer to catch.

I take off again, jogging the thirty yards to the door at the end that stands like a looming sentry.

Every nerve ending lights up like the Fourth of July. After all, someone might be on the other side.

When opportunity knocks…

Hands shaking, I grab the lever, press it down, and push the door open.

Motion sensors kick on the lights.

I glance around the door.

Empty room with cement walls painted a soft gray. A black sofa is positioned against one wall, alongside a mahogany dining table and four chairs. On the far side, a door. I’m betting it leads into the main house’s basement.

I swing my gaze left to a bunk bed with folded cots stacked between the frame and wall. Next to that is a four-tier metal shelf stocked with canned goods, a crockpot, and a toaster oven.

Panic room.

Has to be.

Holy hell.

I should turn back. I’ve been gone ten minutes already.

But I’m here.

I charge in and lift the sofa cushions. I find a bed and—a perfect hiding place—give the frame a good heave, opening it. Nothing.

I lift the mattress—nothing—then climb across it, checking the inside of the sofa.

Damn it.

The bunk bed is next. Same routine. Nothing.

I check behind every can, inside the crockpot, and the toaster oven.

I stand, scanning the room. What am I missing?

The table. I hustle over, eyeing the seam down the middle. Expandable. I grab an end and pull.

Hello .

Something in my chest kicks. It’s like an all-out assault, and I let out a gasp.

Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod.

In the compartment where the extra leaf should be sits a pristine black snakeskin purse.

A Sherman.

Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod.

My phone blares again. Crazy Train.

I flinch so hard my neck locks.

I fumble for the device, jabbing it to silent just as the call goes to voicemail.

Before I can shove it away, a text from Mom pops in.

Where’s my lunch? Are you okay?

I’m about to tap back a quick reply, just as a squeak from behind me sounds. Then I hear voices. Charlie’s, getting louder as if trying to warn me.

I turn—slowly.

The door beside the sofa creaks open.

Run . It’s all I can think. Down the tunnel. Get out .

Too late.

Alex steps into the doorway, Charlie’s face peeking over his shoulder.

“What the hell?” he asks.