Chapter 7 - The Interrogation of Shadows
The atmosphere inside the security control room had transformed from calculated surveillance into a pressure cooker of unspoken history.
Logan turned back to the console desk, his hands slamming down flat against the control surface. He glared at Monitor 04, where Emma was now gently stroking Sophia’s forehead as the little girl finally drifted off into a deep, peaceful sleep.
"Marcus," Logan barked, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp, lethal whisper. "Lock down the estate gates. No one leaves. No one enters."
"Logan—" Marcus began, stepping forward.
"Do it now!" Logan roared, turning his head with dark fury.
Marcus instantly pulled his radio from his belt, punching the direct channel to the main gate guards. "Command to Gatehouse. Red protocol. Lock the outer gates. Vehicle movement suspended until further notice."
Logan walked slowly across the polished concrete floor toward Vincent. The tall, powerful man loomed over the gray-haired house manager, his breath coming in hot, controlled bursts.
"That song, Vincent," Logan whispered, his dark eyes burning into the old man's face. "That is not a song you find in a book. That is not a song played on the radio. That dialect died in the valleys of Calabria sixty years ago."
Vincent swallowed hard, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. He looked down at the dropped ledger on the floor, then met his master's gaze.
"I know what it is, Mr. Parker," Vincent said softly, his voice trembling with rare emotion. "I haven't heard those words spoken since... since your mother passed forty years ago."
Logan’s frame shuddered slightly at the mention of his mother. He took a step back, running a broad hand through his dark hair, pulling at the roots as he paced back and forth in front of the flickering monitor bank.
"My mother sang that to me in secret," Logan said, his voice raw with buried memory. "She never wrote it down. She never sang it outside these walls. When Elena was pregnant with Sophia, I taught Elena the melody... so she could sing it to our daughter."
Logan stopped pacing. He turned his head slowly toward the monitor showing Emma Foster sitting by his sleeping daughter's bed.
"Elena sang that lullaby to Sophia every night before... before the attack," Logan whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, terrifying abyss. "Sophia hasn't heard that song in two years. And Emma Foster—a girl from East Boston—just sang the exact same dialect, word for word, note for note."
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Vincent stood silent, his chest rising and falling heavily. "What are you saying, Logan?"
"I'm saying," Logan said, turning back to the desk and grabbing his black suit jacket, "that Emma Foster didn't end up in this house by accident."
