Elena’s voice didn’t shake anymore. It was quiet, steady, and sharp enough to cut glass.

"She wasn't driving alone," Elena said, her eyes locked onto Victor Hale.

The entire dining room froze. The flickering candlelight cast long, distorted shadows across the faces of twenty-three people who suddenly looked like strangers. The expensive Barolo in my crystal glass sat untouched, the deep red liquid resembling the very thing we had all tried to bury eight years ago.

Marco slammed his palm against the mahogany table. The silverware jumped. "Elena, you are stepping completely out of line. You're a maid—know your place, or you and your daughter will be out on the street tonight with nothing to your names."

"She stays," I said, my voice dangerously low. I didn't look at Marco. My eyes remained fixed on Elena. "Go on, Elena. What else did you see that night?"

Elena stepped forward, leaving the safety of the doorway. Her fingers stopped twisting the dish towel; instead, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides.

"I didn't just see things, Mr. Moretti," Elena whispered, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "I heard them. In the hallway, right outside your private study. While you were downstairs dealing with the investors, the three of them—" she pointed a trembling finger toward Marco, Victor, and Thomas Reed, the estate manager "—were arguing about a signature. A forged transfer of corporate shares bearing Miss Alessandra’s name."

Victor adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his face completely expressionless. "Elena is clearly distressed. Grief over her own recent family troubles has clearly impacted her recollection. Mr. Moretti, surely you aren't going to base a family accusation on the paranoid fantasies of domestic staff?"

"Paranoid?" Thomas Reed chimed in, his voice unnaturally smooth. "Luca, look around this room. Think of what this family has built. Are you really going to tear it apart over a dust-covered piece of plastic brought in by a child?"

I looked down at the battered VHS tape resting in my palm. The handwritten ink of October 12 seemed to burn against my skin.

"If it's just junk," I asked, looking slowly around the table, meeting the terrified, averted eyes of uncles, cousins, and board members, "why is everyone in this room holding their breath?"

Marco forced a tight, brittle smile. "Because it's pathetic, Luca. You're letting a ghost story ruin a dinner party. Throw the tape in the fireplace. Let's finish our wine. We can pretend none of this happened."

"Nothing ever just disappears in this house," I replied, standing up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the marble floor. "Victor. Thomas. Marco. Follow me to the screening room in the basement. Now."

Elena caught my sleeve as I walked past. Her eyes were wide with warning.

"Sir," she whispered urgently. "The VCR in the screening room doesn't work. It was sabotaged this morning. You need to play it in the old security archive behind the wine cellar."

My heart hammered against my ribs. Someone had anticipated this exact moment.