Chapter 3 - The Rotary Ringing
The relentless ringing of the rotary phone echoed through the dark office, each metallic clatter sounding like a hammer blow against Arthur’s frayed nerves. Elena pulled her black cardigan tighter around her shoulders, shivering in the sudden drop in temperature.
"Don't answer it," Elena whispered, her eyes darting around the shadowy corners of the room where towering bookshelves loomed like silent sentinels. "Arthur, whoever left that mannequin... they could be watching us right now."
Arthur didn't listen. The urgency of the situation superseded his caution. Stepping past the threshold, he strode across the Persian rug and snatched the heavy black receiver off the cradle, bringing it sharply to his ear.
"Who is this?" Arthur demanded, his voice echoing in the confined space. "State your name or I swear to God I will trace this line."
A low, mechanical hum crackled through the earpiece, followed by the sound of heavy, rhythmic breathing. Then, a distorted voice spoke, filtered through a digital modifier that stripped away any human cadence.
"The grave was empty long before you arrived, Arthur," the distorted voice rasped. "Check the floorboards beneath the desk. Your past is rotting from the bottom up."
The line went dead, replaced by a harsh, uninterrupted dial tone. Arthur slammed the receiver back onto the cradle, his chest heaving. Without a word to Elena or Leo, who had slipped into the room behind them, Arthur dropped to his knees on the worn rug. He ran his palms along the polished oak floorboards beneath the heavy mahogany desk.
His fingers caught on a raised iron ring he hadn't noticed in the dim light. Pulling upward with all his strength, a heavy wooden panel hinged open, releasing a cloud of stale, damp air that smelled faintly of old perfume and turned earth.
"What did they say?" Elena asked, stepping closer, her face pale in the ambient light filtering from the hallway.
Arthur ignored her, shining the flashlight beam from his smartphone down into the dark cavity beneath the floor. The beam cut through the gloom, illuminating a metal lockbox resting on a bed of dry soil. Stenciled across the lid in faded white paint were the initials M.V.—the exact initials of Mia Vance.
"Is that... is that her stuff?" Leo asked softly, peering over the edge of the open floor hatch, his earlier defiance momentarily replaced by a haunting vulnerability.
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Arthur reached down, his fingers wrapping around the cold metal handle of the lockbox. As he lifted it out, a folded piece of paper fluttered from the underside of the box and landed face-up on the rug. Elena gasped, reading the bold, handwritten words before Arthur could snatch it away: The truth about the night of the accident is inside this box, but opening it makes you an accessory to murder.
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