Chapter 4 - The Voice in the Garden
The glass conservatory was the only warm, living space in the cold iron fortress of the Holloway estate.
Tall green ferns, exotic orchids, and miniature citrus trees filled the sunlit room, surrounded by glass panels that looked out over the crashing grey waves of Lake Washington.
Maya sat on a wrought-iron bench near a blooming white jasmine plant, an open sketchbook resting on her knees. She was dressed in a dark green oversized sweater and black jeans, her dark hair pulled back into a loose, messy bun.
When she heard the soft rustle of my shoes against the stone floor, she snapped her head around.
Her hazel eyes widened. Her jaw dropped.
You came, she signed rapidly, her hands trembling slightly as she set her sketchbook down on the bench.
I promised I would, I signed back, setting my leather briefcase on a small marble table beside her. I pulled up a matching iron chair and sat down across from her. Your father hired me as your official tutor.
Maya’s expression instantly darkened. Her posture slumped, and she let out a bitter, silent huff of air.
He didn't hire you for me, Maya signed sharply, her movements aggressive and jagged. He hired you to watch me. He puts cameras in every room. He hires guards to follow my car. Now he hires an interpreter to report everything I say.
I am not his spy, Maya, I signed firmly, looking her directly in the eyes. I work for you. During these two hours, everything we sign is between us.
Maya let out a short, humorless laugh, her fingers moving with lightning speed:
Nothing in this house is private. He listens through the walls. He reads my notes.
I leaned forward, checking the corners of the conservatory. I spotted two small black camera lenses mounted near the roof beams, silently watching our every move.
I turned back to Maya, smiled pleasantly for the benefit of the cameras, opened my textbook, and set it on her lap.
Watch my hands closely, I signed, positioning my hands low, near my waist, where the angle of the overhead camera was partially obscured by the large leaves of the fern plant beside us. I read your note last night.
Maya went completely still. Her hazel eyes locked onto mine with a desperate, burning intensity.
Is it true? I signed beneath the cover of the textbook. What you wrote about your mother?
Maya looked down at the textbook, pretending to read the printed ASL diagrams, while her fingers moved delicately against the binding of the book, hidden from the camera's line of sight:
My mother didn't die in a jet-ski accident, Maya signed, her fingers twitching with emotion. She was an artist. She hated speedboats. She was terrified of deep water. She would never have gone out onto the lake in a storm.
Why would your father lie? I signed back.
Because she was going to leave him, Maya signed, her eyes swimming with sudden, unshed tears. Two weeks before she disappeared, I found her packing bags in her studio. She showed me a key. A silver key to a safe deposit box at the Seattle Maritime Bank. She told me if anything ever happened to her, I had to find that key.
My heart was beating so fast I could feel it in my throat.
Where is the key now? I asked.
In his study, Maya signed, her knuckles turning white against the textbook. Inside his wall safe behind the portrait of my mother. He keeps it locked with a biometric scanner and a six-digit code.
I looked up at the camera mounted in the corner of the conservatory.
We were playing a terrifying game. If Graham’s security team was analyzing our hand movements through high-resolution video software, they would eventually realize we weren't discussing ASL grammar exercises.
Maya, I signed smoothly, shifting back into standard teaching posture, raising my hands high into the light. Show me the sign for 'FAMILY'.
Maya blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift, but she quickly adapted. She brought her thumbs and index fingers together in two 'F' handshapes, moving them in a smooth circle to touch her pinkies together.
Good, I signed, smiling broadly for the camera. Now show me the sign for 'TRUTH'.
Maya raised her right index finger to her lips, pushing it forward in a single, unyielding line toward my chest.
Truth, she signed, her eyes burning into mine.
Before I could reply, the heavy glass door of the conservatory slid open with a soft, pneumatic hiss.
Graham stood in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the grey morning light. His hands were tucked into his trousers pockets, his storm-gray eyes scanning the quiet room, resting first on Maya, then on me.
"Is the session progressing satisfactorily, Miss Bennett?" Graham asked, his deep voice echoing off the glass walls.
I stood up smoothly, picking up my pen. "Very well, Mr. Holloway. Maya is an exceptional student. Her vocabulary structure is advanced, but we are working on subtle contextual nuances."
Graham took two slow steps into the conservatory, his eyes dropping to the textbook resting on Maya's lap.
"Contextual nuances," Graham repeated softly, a strange, unreadable expression passing over his features. He reached out, his long fingers gently touching a leaf of the white jasmine plant near Maya's head. "In this house, Miss Bennett, context is everything. Be careful you don't misinterpret the scenery."
He turned his head, his cold grey eyes locking onto mine with terrifying precision.
"Dinner is served at seven," Graham added. "As Maya's full-time tutor, Mr. Holloway requests your presence at the table tonight."
May you like
My heart stopped. "Dinner?"
"You wanted to give my daughter a voice, Claire," Graham said, using my first name for the first time, his voice dropping into a low, velvet purr that sent a shiver straight down my spine. "Let's see how well you translate for my family when the knives come out."
