Chapter 9 - Room 408
Z
The Lakeshore Heritage Hotel looked vastly different in the blinding glare of the afternoon than it had during the storm. Built in 1920, the grand limestone structure sat on the edge of the Gold Coast, its mahogany doors and gold-leaf ceilings whispering of old Chicago wealth and carefully buried secrets.
We didn't take the main elevators. Marco led us through the service entrance, navigating narrow carpeted hallways that smelled of ozone, heavy starch, and vintage perfume.
Adrian walked beside me, his hand resting lightly against the small of my back. His touch was a silent anchor, but I could feel the tension vibrating through his frame like a coiled spring.
“Room 408 hasn't been rented in six years,” Adrian said as we reached the fourth floor. The corridor was silent, covered in thick crimson carpet that swallowed our footsteps. “My father bought the entire fourth floor during the 2008 crash. It’s used strictly for executive storage.”
He slid the silver key into the antique brass lock of Room 408.
The lock turned with a heavy, metallic click.
Adrian pushed the door open.
The room was vast, draped in heavy dust sheets that covered ancient armchairs and marble-topped tables like white specters. The air was stale, cold, smelling of old paper and decaying silk.
Marco stepped in first, his hand resting on the grip of his gun under his coat. “Clear.”
We walked inside. In the center of the room stood a massive mahogany desk, untouched by dust sheets. Resting on top of the dark wood was a single, black leather briefcase, unlocked, its brass latches open.
Adrian approached the desk slowly, as if approaching an unexploded bomb. He lifted the lid of the briefcase.
Inside were three things: a stack of printed bank statements, a cassette tape player, and a high-resolution photograph.
I stepped up beside him, looking down into the case. My chest tightened until I couldn't breathe.
The photograph showed a medical facility—a private clinic surrounded by dense pine trees. Standing near the front entrance was a woman with sleek dark hair, wearing a white cardigan. She was smiling at the camera, holding a infant in her arms.
It was Elena. But the date printed in the bottom corner of the photograph made my blood run cold.
October 14, 2025.
Two years after her recorded funeral.
“That’s impossible,” Adrian rasped, his voice tearing at the edges. His fingers trembled as he picked up the photograph. “I was at the cemetery. I saw the casket lowering into the ground. I held Leo while the dirt—”
“Adrian,” I whispered, pointing at the cassette tape player. “Look.”
Scrawled across the black plastic of the cassette tape in elegant, blue cursive handwriting was a single word:
LISTEN.
Adrian reached out with a trembling hand and pressed the black PLAY button.
May you like
A loud hiss of static filled the cold room. Then, a voice came through the small speaker—soft, melodic, carrying the unmistakable, haunting timbre of the woman whose portrait hung in the Lincoln Park estate.
“Adrian... if you are listening to this, then Arthur has failed, and Julian has finally sold us out...”
