Chapter 2 - The Vault of the Dead-2
The digital clock on the wall of the subterranean vault reading room flashed 3:15 AM. I sat in a high-backed leather chair, wrapped in a coarse wool blanket provided by the security guard who had barely recognized me when I stumbled through the doors of the Oakville Central Depository looking like a drowned specter. Thanks to my personal identification number—which I had memorized as a child like a sacred prayer—and a quick emergency verification call routed through a secure backup protocol, I was finally sitting in front of the titanium security box labeled Albright-01.
My hands, still bearing dried mud and faint traces of blood from my expulsion into the storm, hovered over the electronic keypad.
The vault manager, an elderly man named Mr. Henderson who had served my grandfather thirty years ago, stood nearby with a sympathetic yet terrified expression. "Miss Albright, are you certain you wish to proceed? Mr. Gavin Barrett notified our branch yesterday that as the newly appointed CEO of Summit Enterprises, all corporate vaults under your family name are subject to immediate freeze pending probate review."
I turned my head slowly, fixing Henderson with a gaze so cold and piercing that he instinctively stepped back. "Mr. Henderson. Who is the primary legal beneficiary listed on box Albright-01?"
Henderson swallowed hard, tapping his computer terminal. "Your father... Ross Albright. And... secondary access is restricted exclusively to you, Naomi Albright. Not even a spouse holding power of attorney can override this biometric lock."
"Then open it," I commanded.
Henderson pressed his administrator key, and the heavy titanium door of the safe deposit box slid open with a soft, pneumatic hiss. Inside lay a single, thick manila envelope sealed with red industrial wax stamped with my father’s personal signet ring.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I pulled the envelope out, broke the wax seal with my thumb, and slid out the contents. There were three items: a certified flash drive containing encrypted audit logs of Summit Enterprises' internal accounts over the last five years, a handwritten letter addressed to me in my father’s sharp, slashing cursive, and a small, vintage micro-cassette recorder.
With trembling fingers, I unfolded the letter and began to read under the harsh desk lamp:
“My dearest Naomi, if you are reading this, it means my suspicions were correct, and the parasite I brought into our home has finally shown his true teeth. Gavin is a thief, and worse, he is a murderer. For months, my corporate investigators have tracked his secret siphoning of capital into offshore accounts controlled by his mother, Celina. More alarmingly, the brake line failure on my vehicle two weeks ago was no accident. Play the tape inside this envelope, my love. Let the world hear what the dead have to say.”
May you like
Tears blurred my vision, but I refused to let them fall. I picked up the micro-cassette recorder, slid the power switch to play, and pressed down on the silver button.
The machine clicked, a low tape hiss filled the quiet room, and then, a voice echoed through the vault—a voice that sent a jolt of pure electricity down my spine, a voice that belonged to a man who had been buried in the cold earth less than twenty-four hours ago.
