Shallow.
Terrified.
Then a whisper.
"Don't let her know."
Clara's blood went cold.
"Don't let who know?"
No response.
The head of security arrived minutes later.
Then the estate manager.
Then Nathaniel Blackwood.
Clara had only seen him twice before.
Photographs made him seem intimidating.
In person, he was worse.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Silver beginning at his temples despite being only forty-six.
He wore a charcoal suit without a tie and walked with the controlled stillness of someone accustomed to rooms becoming quiet when he entered.
"What happened?"
Everyone began talking at once.
Nathaniel raised one hand.
Silence.
Clara stepped forward.
"Mr. Blackwood, someone is inside the wall."
His expression didn't change.
"What?"
"I heard knocking."
The estate manager interrupted.
"Sir, we haven't confirmed—"
Clara knocked three times.
Nothing.
Nathaniel looked at her.
She knocked again.
"Please," she whispered toward the wall. "It's safe."
A pause.
Then—
Three knocks.
Nathaniel stopped breathing.
Clara saw it happen.
His entire body stiffened.
Not because of the sound.
Because of the pattern.
Three knocks.
Pause.
Two knocks.
Pause.
Three knocks.
Nathaniel stumbled backward.
"No."
Clara looked at him.
"What is it?"
He whispered something almost inaudible.
"Ethan."
Nobody moved.
Nathaniel stepped toward the wall.
He raised a trembling hand.
Then knocked.
Three.
Two.
Three.
The answer came immediately.
Three.
Two.
Three.
Nathaniel made a sound that Clara would remember for the rest of her life.
Not a scream.
Not a sob.
Something between them.
He pressed both palms against the wall.
"Ethan?"
Silence.
Nathaniel shouted.
"ETHAN!"
A weak voice answered from somewhere inside the darkness.
"Dad?"
The billionaire dropped to his knees.
And for the first time in six years, Blackwood Manor heard Nathaniel Blackwood cry.
Chapter Two
Tear It Down
"Break the wall."
The estate manager hesitated.
"Mr. Blackwood, we should wait for emergency services. There could be electrical lines—"
Nathaniel turned toward him.
"I said break the wall."
"Sir—"
Nathaniel grabbed a decorative iron fireplace tool from a nearby stand and swung it himself.
The first blow cracked the plaster.
The second opened a hole.
Security rushed forward.
"Mr. Blackwood!"
He swung again.
Chunks of drywall fell across the expensive Persian runner.
Clara covered her mouth.
Behind the modern wall was something nobody expected.
Brick.
Old brick.
Nathaniel stared.
"This wasn't here."
The estate manager went pale.
"What do you mean?"
"This hallway was renovated nine years ago. That wall should be framing and drywall."
One maintenance worker tapped the exposed bricks.
"There's definitely a space behind it."
Firefighters arrived ten minutes later.
By then Nathaniel was pacing like a man barely contained by his own skin.
Clara stayed nearby.
She didn't know why.
Maybe because the voice had spoken to her first.
Maybe because leaving felt impossible.
The firefighters used thermal imaging equipment.
One of them stared at the screen.
"We've got a heat signature."
Nathaniel closed his eyes.
"Alive?"
"Yes."
The firefighter studied the image.
"Small body. Sitting or lying down."
Nathaniel covered his mouth.
They began cutting.
Brick by brick.
Every sound seemed unbearably loud.
Hammer.
Chisel.
Stone cracking.
Dust filled the hallway.
Then someone shouted.
"We have an opening!"
A firefighter shined a light through.
His expression changed immediately.
"Oh my God."
Nathaniel pushed forward.
Security stopped him.
"Let them work."
"That's my son!"
"Let them reach him safely."
The opening widened.
A flashlight swept across darkness.
Then Clara saw a hand.
Thin.
Almost skeletal.
Fingers shielding frightened eyes from light they hadn't seen in years.
The child crawled forward.
Except he wasn't a child anymore.
He was fourteen.
Or supposed to be.
The boy who emerged looked closer to ten.
His hair reached his shoulders.
His skin was pale gray.
His cheeks were hollow.
He wore an oversized sweatshirt that Clara recognized immediately.
It was old.
Faded.
Printed with a cartoon rocket.
A child's garment stretched across a teenage body.
Nathaniel stared.
"Ethan."
The boy flinched violently.
Then looked at him.
For one terrible moment, there was no recognition.
Nathaniel's face collapsed.
"Ethan. Buddy. It's Dad."
The boy blinked.
His lips trembled.
Then he whispered—
"You got old."
Nathaniel laughed and sobbed simultaneously.
He stepped forward.
Ethan recoiled.
"Don't!"
Nathaniel froze.
The reaction broke something visible in him.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. I won't touch you."
Paramedics approached slowly.
Ethan's eyes darted between everyone.
He clutched something against his chest.
A small rectangular device.
Black.
Covered in scratches.
Nathaniel noticed.
"What are you holding?"
Ethan pulled it tighter.
"No."
"It's okay."
"No."
A paramedic crouched several feet away.
"Ethan, my name is Jennifer. I'm a paramedic. Can I check your breathing?"
The boy stared.
"Is she here?"
Nathaniel asked, "Who?"
Ethan looked toward the hallway entrance.
His entire body began shaking.
"Is Vivian here?"