Chapter 13 - The Ringing in the Dark
The drive back to Sinclair Manor was heavy with an eerie, creeping dread.
The sun had sunk below the horizon, bathing the Tennessee hills in a deep, bruised purple. By the time I pulled into the long gravel driveway, the house was dark except for the warm yellow light glowing from the second-floor library, where Hannah was studying for her upcoming placement exams.
I sat in the idling car for a long moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel. Was Richard lying? Was it the final, desperate ploy of a broken narcissist trying to poison my victory?
Or was my mother’s death part of an even darker conspiracy that stretched far beyond the borders of Cedar Ridge?
I stepped out of the vehicle, the crunch of gravel under my boots echoing loudly in the quiet night. The crisp autumn air smelled unusually sharp—faintly metallic, carrying an odd, chemical tang drifting down from the northern ridge behind the property.
I mounted the porch steps, pushing the heavy front door open.
"Hannah?" I called out into the quiet foyer.
"Upstairs, Becca!" her cheerful voice floated down from the landing. "I made tea! Come look at my biology syllabus!"
I exhaled, feeling a fraction of the tension release from my shoulders. "Coming, kiddo."
Just as I placed my foot on the first riser of the grand staircase, a sharp, rhythmic buzz shattered the silence of the hall.
It wasn't my personal cell phone.
It was coming from the antique writing desk in the corner of the foyer—from the secure, encrypted military satellite phone issued to me by CID for witness protection. A phone that only three people on Earth had the clearance to dial: Captain Alvarez, Colonel Vance, and the Regional FBI Director.
I walked over to the desk, picked up the heavy device, and glanced at the digital screen.
The caller ID didn't say *Alvarez*. It didn't say *CID Headquarters*.
The glowing green text on the screen read: *UNKNOWN — CLASSIFIED DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE ROUTING.*
I pressed the receiver to my ear. "Sergeant Vance."
For three agonizing seconds, there was only the low hiss of static on an encrypted line. Then, a low, distorted voice spoke—not with malice, but with a terrifying, clinical urgency:
"Sergeant Rebecca Vance. If you value your sister's life, do not take another step up those stairs."
My blood froze. Every muscle in my body locked into place.
"Who is this?" I hissed, reaching instinctively for the sidearm at my hip.
"Your father told you the truth about the ridge," the voice whispered through the receiver. "And the men who buried that waste thirty years ago just breached your perimeter. Look out the bay window behind you. Five seconds."
I whipped around.
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Through the sheer curtains of the grand front window, three red laser dots swept across the gravel driveway, climbing up the porch steps, centering squarely on the glass of the front door.
And then, upstairs, Hannah let out a blood-curdling scream.