“If whoever placed that device still has access to the network, this could easily be a setup.”

“They went after my children.”

“Exactly why you don’t walk blindly into something they may have prepared.”

“I’m not waiting.”

“I know.”

Marco’s voice softened.

“But Isabella trusted you enough to leave that recording. Trust her enough not to stop thinking clearly.”

For the first time that evening, my anger finally found something solid to push against.

I stepped closer.

“You expect me to stay here after watching my dead wife alive on a screen?”

“No.”

He held my stare.

“I expect you to behave like the man she believed would stay alive long enough to find her.”

That silenced me.

Marco had been beside me for twelve years.

He had seen me ruthless and reckless.

He had seen me carry Isabella through the front entrance the night Theo, Miles, and Nora arrived early, shouting for the medical team because a snowstorm had blocked the roads and she had gone into labor before we could reach the hospital.

He had also stood beside me during her memorial.

His loyalty had never depended on emotion.

That was why I trusted it.

Mostly.

I looked back toward the laptop.

The falsified financial records carrying Marco’s signature were still visible on the screen.

Mostly.

“I’m going with you,” he said.

“Fine.”

Elena stepped forward.

“So am I.”

“No.”

“Mr. Moretti, my daughter has been given toys by someone hiding inside the walls of your home.”

Her voice trembled.

But she remained where she was.

“I am coming.”

I studied her.

Then gave a single nod.

“Sophie stays here.”

This time Elena agreed.

Two security officers were called in to remain with the children.

Sophie climbed into the rocking chair beside Nora’s crib.

Before we entered the passage, she called after me.

“Mr. Adrien?”

I turned.

She raised her damaged doll.

“The lady said you would be mad.”

Despite everything, a bitter laugh nearly escaped me.

“That sounds like Isabella.”

Sophie nodded seriously.

“She said you get mad when you’re scared too.”

Marco looked upward toward the ceiling.

Elena almost smiled.

I didn’t.

“Anything else?”

Sophie thought carefully.

Then her face changed.

“She said when you find the room, don’t believe the clocks.”

The trace of a smile disappeared from Elena’s face.

Marco turned toward the hidden passage.

“Clocks?”

Sophie nodded.

“All the clocks are lying.”

The staircase went down much farther than it should have.

That was the first thing I noticed.

The nursery stood on the second floor.

Yet after thirty-two steps, according to Marco’s count, we had descended below ground level.

The air changed as we continued.

Cooler. Drier. Older.

The estate had been constructed in 1912 by a railroad magnate who apparently believed a proper home required forty-three rooms, six fireplaces, a wine cellar, and enough passageways to hide an entire army.

My grandfather purchased it in 1978.

I had grown up here.

I knew every room.

Or at least I thought I did.

At the bottom of the staircase was a narrow corridor surrounded by old brick.

Electrical wiring had clearly been installed more recently.

“New insulation,” Marco said quietly.

He touched the wall.

“Modern conduit.”

Elena looked disturbed.

“Someone updated this place.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“That,” Marco replied, “is exactly what I plan to discover.”

The corridor ended at a steel door.

There was no handle.

Beside it sat a digital keypad.

I stared at it.

Marco inspected the edges.

“This wasn’t part of the original structure.”

“No.”

“Biometric.”

He pointed toward a small black square.

“Fingerprint scanner.”

I pressed my thumb against it.

Nothing happened.

Marco tried his.

Nothing.

Elena hesitated.

Then placed her thumb on the reader.

The screen illuminated.

ACCESS GRANTED.

All three of us looked at Elena.

She immediately stepped backward.

“I have never seen this door before.”

Marco’s hand moved automatically toward the we:apon hidden beneath his jacket.

“Elena.”

“I swear.”

The color had vanished from her face.

“I have never been down here.”

I believed her.

That frigh.ten.ed me even more.

The lock disengaged.

The door opened.

Inside was a room about twenty feet long.

A table.

Three chairs.

Two computers.

Shelves filled with files.

An old-fashioned radio.

And across the far wall—

Clocks.

At least thirty of them.

Analog clocks. Digital clocks. Travel clocks. A grandfather clock. Kitchen timers. Cheap alarm clocks.

Every one displayed a different time.

I remembered Sophie’s warning.

Don’t believe the clocks.

Elena whispered, “What kind of place is this?”

Marco moved toward the computers.

I approached the wall.

Pinned beneath the clocks were photographs.

My house.

My vehicles.

Security access points.

Staff schedules.

The children’s pediatric appointments.

Then photographs of people I recognized.

Accountants. Attorneys. Business associates. Politicians. Police officers.

Men who worked for me. Men who worked against me.

And directly in the center was a photograph of Isabella.

A red circle had been drawn around her face.

Beside it was a date.

Not the date of the boat accident.

A date six months earlier.

I pulled the photograph from the wall.

Beneath it was another.

Luca.

Another red circle.

The same date.

Marco stepped beside me.

“Someone began tracking them months before they disappeared.”

“Yes.”

Elena slowly moved around the table.

“There’s handwriting here.”

She picked up a notebook.

I recognized the handwriting instantly.

Isabella.

My fingers shook as I took it from her.

The first page contained a list of names.

The second contained bank transfers.

The third—

A floor plan of the nursery.

In the margin, Isabella had written:

THE HOUSE IS OLDER THAN THE MORETTIS.

I turned the page.

More floor plans.

Tunnels.

Hidden chambers.

Service passages that appeared on no modern blueprint.

Then one sentence had been underlined three times.

MY CHILDREN MUST NEVER LEARN WHAT THIS HOUSE WAS BUILT TO PROTECT.

Marco read the line over my shoulder.

“What did your grandfather ever tell you about this estate?”

“That it was a smart investment.”

“Nothing more?”

“No.”

I turned through several more pages.

Some had been removed.

Others were crowded with dates and initials.

Then I discovered a photograph hidden between the sheets.

My father.

Young.

Standing next to my grandfather.

Between them stood a man I had never seen before.

On the back, Isabella had written:

ASK ADRIEN WHO THIS IS.

I studied the stranger.

“I don’t know him.”

Marco took the photograph from me.

“He looks familiar.”

“From where?”