Chapter 9 – THE BONES BENEATH THE FLOOR

Ethan stared at his computer screen, his blood turning to ice.

Sloane had sent a single, high-resolution photograph. It looked like it had been taken with a ground-penetrating radar system.

It showed the foundation of the art gallery.

And buried six feet beneath the concrete floor of the main exhibition hall was the undeniable outline of a human skeleton.

“What is it, Ethan?” Margaret asked, sensing the sudden shift in the room.

Ethan quickly closed the laptop. “Leo, take Margaret down to the car. Go back to the hotel and wait for me.”

“Ethan, what’s wrong?” Margaret pressed.

“Please, just go. I’ll explain later.”

Reluctantly, Margaret and Leo left the office.

Ethan picked up the phone. “Sloane. What is this?”

“My get-out-of-jail-free card,” Sloane said sweetly. “You thought David started the fire to destroy the patents? He didn’t. The fire was a cover-up, Ethan. To hide a murder.”

Ethan’s mind raced. “Whose body is that?”

“My uncle’s,” Sloane replied. “Julian Mercer. He went missing the night of the fire. My father spent thirty years looking for him. And I finally found him.”

Ethan felt sick. “David killed him?”

“No, Ethan. Your beloved, saintly grandfather killed him. Julian found out about the extortion over the violin and tried to stop my father. Your grandfather panicked, struck him, and buried him under the gallery before it was rebuilt.”

“You’re lying,” Ethan hissed. “My grandfather wasn’t a killer.”

“The DA doesn’t care about your belief,” Sloane said. “The DA cares about evidence. And the murder weapon is buried right next to his skull. A silver-handled cane. The exact one your grandfather used to walk with.”

Ethan looked at his grandfather’s painting. The pristine legacy he had just fought so hard to restore was about to be shattered completely.

“Here is the deal, Ethan,” Sloane said. “You drop all charges against me and my father. You reinstate the merger. And you sign over 51% of the Vale assets by midnight. If you do, the radar scan disappears.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I send the file to the FBI. The Vale name becomes synonymous with cold-blooded murder. The company crashes, and your new cousin Leo inherits a legacy of blood.”

The line went dead.

Ethan sat in the silence of his office, the weight of the world crushing down on him.

He couldn’t let Sloane win. He couldn’t give the company to the Mercers. But he couldn’t let his grandfather be branded a murderer.

He needed to know the truth. He needed to dig up the floor.

He stood up, grabbed his coat, and left the office.

An hour later, Ethan stood in the empty art gallery. He had dismissed all the staff, claiming a plumbing emergency.

He held a heavy steel sledgehammer in his hands.

He walked to the exact spot in the exhibition hall indicated by the radar scan. It was right beneath the spot where his grandfather’s painting had hung.

He raised the hammer and swung.

The marble tile shattered.

He swung again, and again, adrenaline and desperation fueling his muscles. Dust choked the air.

After thirty minutes of brutal labor, he broke through the concrete foundation and hit dirt.

He dropped the hammer and grabbed a shovel, digging frantically into the earth.

Three feet down, his shovel hit something hard.

It wasn’t a bone.

It was a heavy, rusted iron lockbox.

Ethan dragged it out of the dirt, his heart pounding against his ribs.

He pried the rusted lid off with the edge of the shovel.

Inside was a skull.

But it wasn’t human.

It was a perfectly preserved, antique anatomical model made of medical-grade ceramic.

And resting beside it was a folded letter, sealed with his grandfather’s wax crest.

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