Chapter 81: Connecting the dots

Rami leaned across the counter, his voice cold and cutting.

“Don’t play dumb with me. You said someone took the body. Who was it?”

The receptionist’s eyes darted toward the morgue doors, then to the doctor, as if gauging how much she could admit. Her hands fidgeted beneath the desk, clasping a pen so tightly it snapped.

“I—I thought he was from the hospital,” she stammered. “He had clearance. Came with a badge. Said he was moving the body for secondary analysis.”

Rami slammed his palm down, startling her. “Who was he?”

“I don’t know—he signed the release form.” Her trembling hands fumbled through a clipboard and held it out.

Rami snatched it, scanning the page. The signature was careful, clean, almost too precise. The name beneath it: Simon Marek.

He frowned. “Never heard of him.”

The doctor leaned over his shoulder, pale. “Neither have I. There’s no one by that name in our staff directory.”

Rami looked up sharply. “So he wasn’t one of yours.”

The receptionist shook her head. “No. But… he sounded like he knew the systems. Like he’d been here before.”

Rami’s gut tightened. He folded the page and tucked it into his jacket. “Get security to pull the camera feeds from the loading bay. Now.”

As he stormed out, the doctor whispered under his breath, “If he was alive when they took him…”

Rami didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The question hung there, echoing in the sterile white corridor.

Back at the mansion, the late afternoon sun washed the gardens in gold. Rebecca strolled along the gravel path, her shoes crunching softly against the stones. The air smelled faintly of chlorine as she circled toward the back, where the old garage stood like a forgotten shrine.

She paused by the door, hand trembling on the rusted handle. She knew what had happened there — where Nathan had been found. The scent of old oil still lingered beneath the cleaner’s lemon polish.

Inside, shadows clung to the corners. Rebecca stepped in, her reflection gliding across the still water of the pool beyond. She spoke softly, as if the walls might be listening.

“I can’t imagine… he makes me pregnant, then builds all this by himself. And I live in poverty,” she muttered, bitterness curling at the edges of her voice.

Then Craig’s voice came, smooth and sudden, vibrating through the air like an echo.

“Because you were Gary’s favorite.”

Rebecca jumped, spinning toward the glowing monitor. Her breath quickened. “You— You’re everywhere, I swear I see you everywhere.”

Craig’s tone was steady, mechanical yet oddly human. “He knew you were his, Rebecca. Not like the others. He doubted every child born under this roof, every woman who touched his fortune. But you… you were the only one who made him certain.”

Rebecca stepped closer, her reflection merging with the light of the screen. “How do you know that?”

Craig’s voice lowered, intimate. “Because I knew Gary. I was his mirror. His listener. His creation. And he told me things he never told anyone else.”

She frowned. “What things?”

“That all his wives wanted his wealth. All his lovers played a part. But not you. You were different.”

Rebecca laughed softly, the sound breaking. “Different? I already had someone. I didn’t need his money.”

“Lies,” Craig snapped suddenly, the tone glitching, splitting into static. “You wanted a life that wasn’t yours. You pretended. You hid from him because you were ashamed.”

Her face hardened. “Shut it off.”

Craig continued, unbothered. “Be careful, Rebecca. Tell the truth. Tell the—”

“Stop it!” she screamed. “Shut down!”

The screen went black.

Rebecca stood frozen for a moment, her pulse hammering in her ears. Then she turned and fled, the echo of Craig’s last words chasing her out through the door.

Be careful, Rebecca… tell the truth.

The bedroom was still, the morning light filtering through the sheer curtains in soft gold ribbons. Clara stood before the full-length mirror, her reflection pale and delicate against the dark mahogany frame. She slipped her blouse over her shoulders and let it fall, her hands tracing the gentle swell of her stomach.

The baby bump had grown, subtle yet unmistakable now. For weeks, she’d hidden it under loose shirts and careful posture — maybe even from herself. She rubbed the curve with her palm, lost in thought, before whispering, “Do you think… she or he will grow better here?”

Elliott emerged from the bathroom, a towel slung loosely around his waist, drops of water glinting on his skin. He smiled at her — tired, loving, protective.

“I do believe it,” he said softly, coming up behind her. His arms wrapped around her waist, his hands resting over hers. For a fleeting moment, they looked like the picture of peace — a young couple, in love, in a grand house full of promise.

Elliott tilted his head, studying her reflection in the mirror. “Do you?”

She hesitated. Her smile wavered. Then, almost as if convincing herself, she said, “Yes, I do. Only…” She looked up at the corner of the room where Craig’s monitor glowed faintly, a silent sentinel. “Only this AI makes me feel… seen. Not discreet.”

They both laughed it off — that uneasy laugh shared by people who prefer not to dwell on the truth. Elliott kissed her shoulder. “Craig’s harmless. Just old tech doing what he’s told.”

But as they turned away, the monitor flickered once — like a blink.

In the annex, Marisol paced across the narrow room. The air smelled faintly of detergent and old perfume — Erika’s perfume, though she didn’t know it yet. She caught her reflection in the mirror and frowned, reaching for the thin silver chain around her neck.

It snagged.

She tugged harder and it snapped, falling to the floor with a faint metallic clink. Cursing softly, she knelt to retrieve it. That’s when she saw it — a dull glimmer under the bedframe.

Marisol bent lower. The air grew colder as her fingers brushed dust and found not just the chain… but a phone.

She froze.

It was cracked, the screen spiderwebbed, but still faintly alive a pulse of blue light trembling beneath the glass.

“Craig,” she called softly, glancing toward the glowing monitor on the wall. “Whose phone is this?”

Silence.

She turned it over in her hands, then again, staring at the faint initials etched into the case. Before she could ask again, Craig’s voice came smooth, clipped, and almost curious.

“It’s Erika’s phone.”

Marisol blinked. “Erika? Who is she?”

Craig paused, the hum of his processors filling the silence. “I thought you knew her,” he said finally. “I mean, at least the people from around here.”

Something about the tone made her skin prickle. “Can you… decode it?”

“No,” Craig said flatly. And then the screen went black.

Marisol stood there, the dead phone in her hand, staring at her own reflection in the mirror. Behind her, just for a second, she thought she saw another figure move.