Chương 4
On the desk in front of him sat an old wooden box.
He opened it slowly.
Inside were letters, a few photographs, and a faded hospital bracelet from the day Marcus was born.
Stallone touched the bracelet with his thumb, then closed the box again.
Some memories did not hurt because they were painful.
They hurt because they showed how much time had passed before someone finally admitted what was wrong.
A soft knock came at the door.
Marcus stood there.
“You knew she was hiding something before today.”
It was not a question.
Stallone looked up.
“Come in.”
Marcus entered but did not sit.
That was another thing he had inherited from childhood.
Whenever he had serious conversations with his father, he stayed ready to leave.
“You knew.”
Stallone leaned back in his chair.
“I suspected.”
“About what?”
“I do not know yet.”
Marcus frowned.
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only honest one.”
Marcus looked frustrated.
“You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk like you are giving me a lesson instead of a conversation.”
Stallone accepted the criticism without defending himself.
That annoyed Marcus more.
“You are allowed to be angry with me,” Stallone said.
Marcus looked away.
“I am.”
“Good.”
The answer caught him off guard.
“Good?”
“Yes.”
Stallone folded his hands.
“Anger usually means something still matters.”
Marcus walked toward the window.
Outside, the courtyard lights had turned on.
The broken vase had been removed.
Only a faint mark remained between the stones where it had fallen.
“I spent my whole life trying not to become you.”
Stallone stayed quiet.
“I thought if I was calm, if I never raised my voice, if I kept everyone happy, then I would be different.”
Marcus swallowed.
“But today I realized I just found a quieter way to be afraid.”
The honesty made the room feel smaller.
Stallone looked down at the desk.
“My father was a hard man.”
Marcus turned.
“You never talk about him.”
“Because I spent too many years talking about what he did wrong instead of admitting what I copied.”
That was not the answer Marcus expected.
“He taught me that respect came from fear.”
Stallone paused.
“I spent years proving him wrong.”
“And did you?”
The old man looked toward the fireplace.
“Not always.”
The admission sat between them.
Marcus had expected excuses.
He had expected a speech about being a different generation or having different responsibilities.
Instead, his father gave him something much harder.
The truth.
“I should have believed her,” Marcus said.
Stallone nodded.
“Yes.”
No comfort.
No softening.
Just the truth.
Marcus accepted it.
“That hurts more when you say it like that.”
“It should.”
For a moment, Marcus almost laughed.
It was not a happy laugh.
Just a tired one.
“You really have not changed.”
“No.”
Stallone looked at him.
“But maybe I have learned a little.”
Before Marcus could respond, his phone vibrated.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed.
“What?”
Marcus did not answer immediately.
It was a message from the family property manager.
A security report had been filed earlier that day.
The camera system around the east courtyard had been manually disabled for seventeen minutes.
Marcus read the message twice.
“Why would the cameras be off?”
Stallone stood.
“Who disabled them?”
“That is the problem.”
Marcus looked up.
“The system says it was authorized from inside the house.”
A quiet tension entered the room.
“By who?”
Marcus scrolled.
His face became pale.
“Eleanor.”
Neither man spoke.
The answer should have felt like proof.
Instead, it created more questions.
Stallone walked toward him.
“Show me.”
Marcus handed him the phone.
The report was simple.
Time.
Access code.
User authorization.
No explanation.
Stallone studied it.
“Do not accuse her yet.”
Marcus stared at him.
“You think she has a reason?”
“I think people do strange things when they are afraid.”
Marcus looked toward the hallway.
“But she blamed Lily.”
“Yes.”
“And now we find out she turned off cameras.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds like a reason.”
“It sounds like a clue.”
The difference mattered.
Stallone had survived long enough to know that people often destroyed themselves by deciding they already understood the entire story.
They walked upstairs together.
The mansion had become unusually quiet.
Most of the staff had gone home.
Only a few lights remained on.
When they reached the hallway outside Eleanor’s office, they heard voices.
They stopped.
Marcus recognized one immediately.
Eleanor.
The other voice was male.
Unknown.
The door was slightly open.
Marcus looked at his father.
Stallone shook his head.
Not yet.
They waited.
“You said nobody would find out,” Eleanor said.
Her voice was lower than usual.
Almost desperate.
The man answered too quietly for them to hear.
Marcus stepped closer.
The floor creaked.
The voices stopped.
A few seconds later, the office door opened.
Eleanor stood there.
For the first time all day, she looked genuinely afraid.
Not angry.
Not offended.
Afraid.
Her eyes moved from Marcus to Stallone.
“What are you doing here?”
Marcus looked past her shoulder.
The office was empty.
The window near the desk was open.
A cold breeze moved the papers on her desk.
“Who were you talking to?” Marcus asked.
Eleanor’s face tightened.
“Nobody.”
Stallone looked at the open window.
“Another quick answer.”
She stared at him.
“You think everything is a lie.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“I think you have become very comfortable hiding things.”
Eleanor looked at Marcus.
“You brought him here to interrogate me?”
Marcus shook his head.
“I did not know about the cameras.”
That caught her attention.
“What cameras?”
The question came too quickly.
Stallone noticed.
Marcus noticed.
Even Eleanor noticed her own mistake.
Nobody spoke.
The silence became its own accusation.
Then Eleanor sat down.
The anger disappeared from her face.
For a moment, she looked older.
Much older.
“I was trying to fix something.”
Marcus stayed near the doorway.
“What?”
She looked at the desk.
“I cannot explain it.”
“You need to.”
May you like
“I know.”
Her hands tightened together.
