“Beatrice.”
At the top of the stairs, they entered the bell chamber.
Rain blew through the cracked wooden shutters. The grounds spread beneath them: forests, the distant lights of Ashcombe House, and a line of approaching cars on the northern road.
Jonathan reached the transmitter controls.
The power switch had been removed.
Lydia searched the room.
A memory surfaced.
She reached behind the largest bell and found a red cord.
When she pulled it, the old bell rang.
The sound rolled across the estate.
Lights awakened on the transmitter.
Below them, Malcolm’s men broke through the archive door.
Beatrice dragged a cabinet across the entrance while Elias activated the upload. Thousands of audio files began transferring through the tower relay.
Malcolm entered the room.
He looked almost disappointed.
“Step away from the console.”
Beatrice stood between him and Theo.
“You arranged my father’s death.”
“Your father suffered a boating accident.”
“He was afraid of water. He never owned a boat.”
Malcolm glanced at the progress bar.
Twelve percent.
“You believe sending those recordings will create justice? It will create panic. Governments will fall. Children will learn their parents bought them. Families will destroy one another.”
Miriam stepped forward.
“Those families deserve the truth.”
“You have no right to speak of truth.”
“I have the right to confess.”
She placed a small voice recorder on the table.
“For the past six months, I documented every procedure you ordered me to perform.”
Malcolm’s composure cracked.
“You foolish woman.”
The upload reached twenty-eight percent.
Malcolm moved toward the computer.
Elias blocked him.
The men with Malcolm advanced, but a new voice came through the chapel above.
“Inspector Bell! Remain where you are!”
Malcolm looked at Beatrice.
“You called the police.”
“No,” she said. “You invited them.”
She held up her phone.
“When you sealed the ballroom, I activated an emergency broadcast. Every word you said to Jonathan’s guests was transmitted to the regional police.”
Malcolm turned toward the security monitor.
Police vehicles surrounded the chapel.
But he smiled.
“They will find nothing. The archive will erase itself before they enter.”
A countdown appeared on the screen.
SYSTEM PURGE: SIXTY SECONDS.
Elias tried to stop it.
“The command is external.”
The upload was only at forty-one percent.
High above them, Jonathan struck the transmitter housing with his palm.
“The signal is weakening.”
Lydia examined the cables. One had been cut years ago and repaired poorly.
She removed the silver pin from her hair and used it to hold the connection in place.
The signal strengthened.
In the archive, the upload jumped to fifty-eight percent.
The countdown reached forty seconds.
Malcolm approached Theo.
“Give me the compass.”
Theo backed against Beatrice.
“No.”
“The object belongs to the Carrow family.”
“My mom gave it to me.”
“Your mother has caused enough damage.”
Theo’s fear disappeared.
“You’re the man who made her go away.”
Malcolm stopped.
Theo held the compass tightly.
“You lied to her. You lied to Dad. You lied to everyone.”
Malcolm reached for him.
Miriam stepped between them.
“You will not touch that child.”
The chapel doors opened above.
Malcolm’s men abandoned him and raised their hands as officers entered.
The upload reached seventy-four percent.
The purge countdown reached twenty seconds.
Elias pulled cables from the main server.
“It won’t be enough.”
Beatrice searched the shelves.
“Where is the physical master?”
Lydia’s voice came through the internal speaker from the tower.
“There isn’t one. Malcolm would never trust a single copy.”
“What are we missing?”
Lydia looked at the transmitter.
Three lights.
Archive.
Tower.
House.
The third light was dark.
“The ballroom,” she whispered.
“What?” Jonathan asked.
“He brought everyone to Ashcombe House because he needed their devices.”
She realized the charity gala’s wireless system had been designed to connect hundreds of guest phones for donations.
“Turn on the estate broadcast,” she said. “Use the gala network.”
“That could send the archive to every device in the house.”
“Exactly.”
Jonathan activated the final switch.
At Ashcombe House, phones began vibrating in pockets and evening bags.
Every guest received an encrypted evidence package.
Judges.
Journalists.
Government officials.
Hospital directors.
People who had paid Malcolm.
People he had deceived.
People who had suspected him but remained silent.
The upload reached one hundred percent with three seconds remaining.
The archive screens went black.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then police entered the hidden room.
Malcolm looked at the dead monitors and began to laugh.