The Echoes In The Dark Room

The Echoes In The Dark Room
“One, two, three, play,” she said like a whisper.

My breath hitched in my throat. I was still sitting in the dusty old chair in the library, staring at the ancient computer screen. The cursor was blinking over the file name: Record 1.wav. My finger trembled slightly, hovering over the left click button. Downstairs, the man I loved, the man I had just betrayed with my body and my lies, was sleeping soundly, convinced that I was his everything. Up here, I was about to click a file that might contain the keys to his family’s destruction.

The silence in the room was crushing. I could hear the loud, old fan of the computer whirring, a low, mechanical growl that felt like a predator stalking me. I could hear my own heart, too, hammering against my ribs, a wild, frantic drumbeat of terror and excitement.

I took a deep gulp of the stale air. I glanced back at the door, half expecting Ethan to walk in, his eyes soft with sleep and love, asking what I was doing. But the door remained closed. The guards outside were silent sentinels of the Malcovich darkness.

I clicked the mouse.

A small media player window popped up instantly. It was a basic, ancient player. The progress bar jumped to the beginning.

There was a hiss. The static was loud, like dry leaves crunching underfoot. The sound quality was terrible, tinny and distant, suggesting the recording had been made on a cheap tape recorder or a hidden microphone decades ago.

Then, through the heavy curtain of static, I heard a voice.

It was a young voice. Small, high-pitched, almost childlike. It sounded strained, slightly scared, perhaps even tearful. It was muffled, as if the person speaking was hiding under something or talking into a pillow. But the words were clear enough. Only two words.

“Marcus Gerry.”

Then, the recording cut off instantly. The media player stopped. The silence rushed back in, thicker and more oppressive than before.

I sat frozen in the chair. My body was locked up, stiff as a corpse. I couldn't breathe. My eyes were wide, fixed on the screen, but I wasn't seeing the file names anymore. I was seeing the face of a man, an adult, a cold, ruthless businessman who controlled half the country's economy. Norman Malcovich.

There was never a mistake to doubt it wasn't Norman.

Even though the voice was young, the cadence, the deep resonance that strained against the young pitch, was unmistakably Norman. It was Norman Malcovich’s voice, but maybe thirty years younger. Twenty years younger.

I knew that voice. I had heard it screaming commands, ordering the destruction of my father's life. Hearing it like this—small, young, and vulnerable—was terrifying. It was raw. It was painful. It spoke volumes. It sounded like a desperate plea.

"Marcus Gerry."

Why was Norman calling that name? Was Marcus Gerry another person? Was it a place? Was it a phrase? Marcus was the name of the man who controlled me. Marcus Gerry , the owner of vernbuilds Corps. Was this the connection? A young Norman Malcovich, calling out the name of the man who now held me captive?

With Aria's heart pounding drastically she took the USB drive immediately. The cold plastic of the drive felt like ice in my hand. I yanked it out of the computer port, not even bothering to eject it safely. The computer gave a sharp, protesting beep. I slammed the small media player window shut. I didn't dare listen to the other two records. Not here. Not now. The suspense was too much. The risk of being found was too great.

I needed to move. Fast.

My legs felt like lead weights, but I forced myself out of the chair. I grabbed the manila folder from the desk. My hands crushed the folder, wrinkling the old, brittle paper inside. I didn't care.

I rushed down the stairs.

I was moving like a phantom, trying to make my heavy footsteps sound light. Every stair creaked a complaint against the silence. Creak. Creak. Creak. I kept my body low, my eyes glued to the dark landing below. The darkness was a blanket of fear, but it was also a shield.

I reached the bottom of the staircase, landing silently on the rug in the hallway. I paused, holding my breath, straining my ears for any sound from the living room. Was Ethan awake? Did he hear the computer beeping? Did he feel the empty space beside him?

The silence was the only answer.

I walked into the living room. The moonlight filtered through the tall, narrow windows, casting a silver glow over the scene. Ethan was still sprawled out on the velvet couch, naked, utterly vulnerable, and fast asleep. His face was turned towards the back of the couch, his lips slightly parted. He looked so peaceful. So innocent.

The sight of him, so trusting, sent a fresh wave of agony through my heart. I was a snake in his garden. I was stealing his life while he slept.

I moved to the side of the couch, near my discarded clothes and handbag. I couldn't just leave. I had to plant the evidence of my innocence. I had to look like I belonged here.

I folded the files and kept it inside the bag I came with. I forced the thick manila folder to bend, stuffing it deep into the main compartment of my expensive handbag. The file was large and stiff, and it took effort. The zipper protested. I held my breath, pushing the leather inward until the file was completely hidden.

Then, the USB drive. It was too small to just drop into the bag. It would get lost, or worse, I might have to fumble for it later. This drive was priceless. It contained the young, terrified voice of Norman Malcovich. It contained the word "Marcus Gerry." It was the most important piece of evidence in my entire life.

I carefully tucked it into the tiny zipper pocket inside the lining. It was small, secure, and I knew exactly where it was.

Mission accomplished. The evidence was secured.

Now, the hard part.

I went and laid with Ethan like I did nothing.

I shed my t-shirt. I dropped it on the floor with my jeans. I had to be naked, just like he was. I had to return to the scene of our intimacy as if I had never left.

I slipped back onto the couch, easing my body against his. I pressed my back against his warm, strong chest, pulling his heavy arm around my waist, wrapping myself into his embrace exactly as we had been when he fell asleep.

His skin was hot. His scent was heavy. He mumbled softly, pulling me closer in his sleep. His grip tightened instinctively. He was anchoring himself to me, even in his unconsciousness.

I was his anchor. I was his safe harbor. And I was his ruin.

It was night already but she couldn't sleep.

I lay there, wide awake, the adrenaline still surging through my veins, keeping my eyes wide open in the dark.

The recording was distracting me drastically. It wasn't just a distraction. It was a deafening siren blaring in my mind.

"Marcus Gerry. Marcus Gerry. Marcus Gerry."

I kept replaying the two words. The child's voice. The raw fear in the sound. What did it mean? Did Norman Malcovich, the cruelest man I knew, have a hidden secret? Was Marcus Gerry someone Norman feared? Did it mean the tables were about to turn in a way Marcus Gerry hadn't even imagined?

I needed to get home and play the record.

I needed to hear the rest of it. What was on Record 2? What was on Record 3? Was it a confession? A threat? A plea for help? I couldn't wait another minute. Lying here, pretending to be asleep, felt like a waste of precious time.

I felt like living the next morning without waiting for Ethan to go home with me.

I couldn't stay. Every second I spent tangled up with Ethan was a second that increased the risk of exposure. He was planning our wedding. He was talking about our children. The intensity of his love was a spotlight that was burning through my disguise. I was afraid that if I stayed, I would break. I was afraid that I would wake him up, tell him the truth, give him the drive, and destroy my revenge plan just to save his beautiful heart.

This thought twisted the knife in my heart. This might be it. This might be the final night I slept in his arms. The last time I felt his breath on my neck. The last time I could pretend to be Norah.

I tightened my hand on his arm, silently saying goodbye.

He loved Norah. He loved the lie. And if I stayed, the love would become too much. The pretense would become too hard. I was already at my breaking point. The moment he asked me to choose a date for the wedding, I nearly shattered. If he asked me to spend the day exploring the dusty old house, sharing more secrets, making more memories, I would confess everything. I would give up the mission. I would lose myself.

I couldn't let that happen. Not after everything. Not after my father. Not after Marcus. I had to be strong. I had to remember why I was here. Revenge. Safety. Justice.

The image of the three audio files flashed behind my eyelids. Record 1, Record 2, Record 3.

What if the records implicated Norman in something worse than what Marcus knew? What if they were the key not just to bringing Norman down, but to bringing down Marcus too? Marcus wanted me to burn the file. He only wanted the paper documents. He never mentioned the drive. This meant the drive was either insignificant, or it was the only thing that truly mattered. And knowing Marcus, he always hid the truth. He always kept the most important weapons for himself.

The thoughts raced in circles. They chased each other in the darkness. I analyzed the voice, the static, the fear, the name. Every possible combination, every scenario. The logic of revenge was a cold comfort, but it couldn't silence the warmth of the man sleeping behind me.

I focused on the cold metal feeling of the USB drive pressed against my hip bone, hidden in the lining of my bag. It was real. It was tangible. It was my future.

I didn't sleep. Not for a long time. I watched the moonlight move slowly across the room, tracking the hours until dawn. I felt the exhaustion of the day—the emotional roller coaster, the passionate deceit, the terrifying discovery—finally catch up with me.

The last thought I had before the darkness finally claimed me was a desperate, whispered promise to myself: I would leave before he woke up. I had to. It was the only way to save us both from the inevitable explosion.