Chapter 15 - The Man in the Mirror
We arrived at the skeletal remains of Vance Manor at three in the morning.
The once-magnificent neoclassical estate was now a blackened ribcage against the stormy Massachusetts sky. Charred columns rose like broken fingers from the soaked lawns where Julian and I had once danced under chandeliers. The bitter smell of incinerated timber and wet soot still clung to the air, months after the catastrophic fire.
Julian cut the car’s headlights a quarter-mile before the gates, coasting to a stop beneath the weeping willow trees.
"The police tape is cut," I observed, pointing toward the heavy iron gates. The yellow crime-scene banner flapped limply in the freezing wind.
"Stay behind me," Julian instructed, pulling an extra magazine from his pocket and snapping it into his firearm. "If anything happens to me, you run to the main road. The keys to the lockbox in Zurich are sewn into the lining of my coat. Take them and leave the country."
"Stop talking like you're going to die," I said fiercely, grabbing his arm. "I walked through fire with you once, Julian. We finish this together."
A faint, bitter smile touched his lips, but his eyes remained deadly serious. "You deserve a normal husband, Clara. Not a ghost hunter."
"I chose you," I replied.
We navigated the treacherous terrain of the burned courtyard, our boots sinking into sludge and crushed glass. We bypassed the hollow shell of the grand foyer, where the magnificent staircase had collapsed into a heap of twisted iron and ash. Instead, I led him toward the northern quadrant—to the spot where the ornamental marble fountain of Apollo had once stood.
The statue had toppled during the fire, smashing into chunks. But beneath the pedestal, hidden beneath a mound of charred timber, was a heavy steel inspection hatch that bore no scorch marks.
It had been opened recently. The brass hinges were slick with fresh lithium grease.
I crouched beside the hatch, pulling out the blueprints. "The override bypass requires an eight-digit structural serial code. Only the licensed architect has it."
"Do you remember it?" Julian asked, keeping his weapon trained on the darkness around us.
"I memorized every blueprint I ever drafted," I replied.
I knelt in the soot, wiped the mud from the digital keypad, and punched in the numbers: *0-9-1-4-1-9-8-8*. The date my firm was founded.
A heavy pneumatic chime sounded, followed by the deep, grinding groan of hydraulic deadbolts disengaging. The steel hatch popped open three inches, releasing a blast of climate-controlled, ozone-scented air.
Down below, electric lights were humming.
Julian took the lead, stepping onto the metal spiral staircase that spiraled downward into the earth. I followed, closing the heavy hatch behind us just enough to prevent the wind from betraying our presence.
At the bottom of the twenty-foot shaft, the concrete walls were dry, pristine, and lined with high-end server racks. The blinking green lights of computer mainframes cast eerie, rhythmic shadows across the polished concrete floor.
This was not a forgotten root cellar. It was a war room.
In the center of the subterranean bunker was a massive boardroom table made of black glass. And sitting in the leather executive chair at the head of the table, calmly sipping a glass of twenty-year-old scotch, was a woman dressed in an immaculate cream-colored cashmere suit.
Eleanor.
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"You're late, Clara," Eleanor said smoothly, not even flinching at the sight of Julian’s drawn gun. "Christian was getting impatient."
***
