For several seconds, no one moved.
Rain poured through the shattered front window.
The brick rested on the hardwood floor beside scattered pieces of glass.
The note remained in my hands.
STOP DIGGING. YOUR FATHER SHOULD HAVE STAYED DEAD.
Mrs. Pike was the first to speak.
“Call the police.”
I nodded.
But before I reached for my phone, Bram quietly said,
“They’ll already be gone.”
“What?”
“Whoever threw that brick knew exactly when to do it.”
He looked toward the street.
“They wanted us frightened.”
“They didn’t want to hurt us.”
“They wanted us to stop.”
The mechanic walked to the broken window and looked outside.
The street was empty.
Only rain.
Only darkness.
No headlights.
No footsteps.
Nothing.
I dialed 911 anyway.
Two patrol officers arrived twenty minutes later.
They photographed the broken window.
Collected the brick.
Bagged the threatening note.
One officer asked whether I suspected anyone.
Before I could answer, Calder spoke.
“This is ridiculous.”
He spread his hands dramatically.
“My brother has dragged everyone into some fantasy.”
The younger officer looked at him.
“You are?”
“Calder Voss.”
“The deceased woman’s son.”
The officer wrote something in his notebook.
Then he turned back to me.
“Mr. Hale?”
I looked at the note again.
“I don’t know who threw it.”
It was true.
I didn’t know.
Not yet.
The officers left just after midnight.
The rain finally began to slow.
Mrs. Pike insisted on helping me cover the broken window with plywood from the garage.
The mechanic stayed until the last nail was hammered into place.
When we finished, Bram was still sitting at the kitchen table.
Staring at nothing.
“The fourth press,” I said quietly.
He didn’t answer.
“Bram.”
He rubbed both hands across his face.
“Our father remodeled the factory six months before Lucan died.”
“So?”
“He ordered one entire room sealed.”
“Why?”
“He said the old press was unsafe.”
The mechanic frowned.
“I serviced every machine in that building.”
“There wasn’t anything wrong with Press Four.”
Bram slowly nodded.
“I know.”
I felt my heartbeat quicken.
“So why seal it?”
Bram looked directly at me.
“Because Father didn’t want anyone finding what was behind it.”
The room became silent.
Mrs. Pike folded her arms.
“Can we even get inside?”
The mechanic answered.
“The demolition crew only finished the east wing.”
“The old press room is still standing.”
“For now.”
“How long?”
“They’ll start tearing it down tomorrow morning.”
I looked at the clock.
12:47 a.m.
“If there’s something hidden behind that wall…”
The mechanic finished my sentence.
“…by tomorrow afternoon it could be buried forever.”
No one needed convincing after that.
An hour later we stood outside the abandoned Voss Printing Company.
The storm had washed years of dirt from the faded brick walls.
Broken windows stared into the darkness like empty eyes.
The old company sign still hung crooked above the entrance.
VOSS PRINTING COMPANY.
The gate around the property had already been opened by the demolition company earlier that day.
Yellow caution tape fluttered in the wind.
We slipped through.
The flashlight in my hand cut across decades of dust.
Everything smelled of wet concrete, machine oil, and old paper.
Rows of silent printing presses stretched across the enormous room.
Most had already been dismantled.
Only one remained untouched.
Press Four.
It stood alone against the far wall beneath a cracked skylight.
It was much larger than I expected.
Almost twelve feet tall.
Rust covered its gears.
Dust coated every lever.
Behind it…
A brick wall.
Newer than the rest of the building.
Different color.
Different mortar.
The mechanic ran his hand across it.
“This wasn’t built with the factory.”
“No.”
“It was added later.”
Bram stepped closer.
“Our father hired contractors over one weekend.”
“He wouldn’t let any employees inside.”
I aimed my flashlight along the floor.
Something caught the light.
Fresh footprints.
Not ours.
The dust had been disturbed recently.
Very recently.
Someone else had been here.
I knelt beside one print.
The sole pattern was sharp.
The edges hadn’t filled with dust yet.
“They’re less than a day old,” the mechanic whispered.
My stomach tightened.
“We’re too late.”
Before anyone could answer, a beam of light swept across the factory from somewhere behind us.
Someone shouted.
“Who’s in there?”
Another flashlight appeared.
Then another.
The demolition site’s overnight security.
Bram looked at me.
“They’ll make us leave.”
I shook my head.
“Not before we see what’s behind that wall.”
I grabbed an old steel pry bar leaning against the nearest machine.
The mechanic stepped beside me without saying a word.
Together we wedged the bar into the mortar.
The first brick shifted.
Then another.
Dust exploded into the air.
One loose brick fell to the floor with a heavy crack.
A cold draft rushed through the opening.
There was empty space behind the wall.
Not solid concrete.
A hidden room.
I reached inside with the flashlight.
The beam illuminated shelves.
Boxes.
Metal filing cabinets.
And hanging on the opposite wall…
A large framed family photograph.
Lucan.
Mrs. Voss.
Their father.
Sabine.
Calder.
Bram.
Someone had driven a long knife straight through Lucan’s face.
Pinned beneath the knife was a yellowing note.
It had been written in black fountain-pen ink.
“TRAITORS DON’T DESERVE TO BE REMEMBERED.”
PART 7: “THE SECRET ROOM BEHIND PRESS FOUR”
No one spoke.
The flashlight beam remained fixed on the photograph.
The knife had rusted with age, but it still held Lucan’s picture against the wall.
Mrs. Pike slowly covered her mouth.
“Oh… Odette never told me about this.”
The mechanic stepped closer.
“He wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see it.”
“You mean your father?” I asked Bram.
He nodded once.
“Our father believed Lucan betrayed the family.”
“He said it every day after Lucan died.”
I carefully pulled the knife from the frame.
The photograph fluttered into my hands.
The hole pierced directly through my father’s smile.
Across the bottom, someone had written a date.
October 13.
The day before Lucan died.
I slipped the photograph into my backpack.
“We’re taking everything.”
The hidden room was no larger than a single office.
Dust covered every shelf.
A narrow desk stood beneath a small window that had been completely bricked over from the outside.
