Chapter 5 Younger Son's Descent

# Chapter 5: Younger Son's Descent

By my third day in the Albert household, I had established a routine with Elliot. We spent mornings on French conversation—or rather, I spoke while he listened, occasionally responding through written notes. Afternoons were dedicated to literature and culture. The boy was brilliant, absorbing information like a sponge, though he remained selectively mute.

It was during our fourth session that I decided to probe deeper. We were discussing Baudelaire's "Les Fleurs du Mal" when I casually mentioned, "Poetry often gives voice to things we cannot say aloud."

Elliot's eyes flickered up to mine, a flash of something—recognition? fear?—crossing his face.

"Do you play piano every day?" I asked, changing tactics.

He nodded.

"I'd love to hear you play again. Your Chopin was magnificent."

He considered this for a moment before standing, apparently agreeing to my request. I followed him to the music room, watching as he settled at the grand piano with the ease of someone coming home. His fingers hovered over the keys momentarily before descending into the opening notes of Debussy's "Clair de Lune."

I sat in a nearby chair, observing not just his technical skill but the transformation that overtook him. The rigid posture softened, his usually guarded expression opening like a flower to the sun. Music was clearly his true language, more fluent than any French I could teach him.

When he finished, I applauded softly. "Magnifique. You play with such emotion."

He nodded slightly, acknowledging the compliment without pride.

"Have you always played?" I asked.

He reached for the notebook he kept in his pocket, writing: *Since I was four.*

"And have you always..." I hesitated, searching for delicate phrasing. "Not spoken?"

His pen moved across the page: *Since I was ten.*

"What happened when you were ten, Elliot?"

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His hand stilled. For a long moment, he stared at the blank page, then slowly wrote: *I saw something I shouldn't have.*

My pulse quickened. "What did you see?"

Instead of answering, he turned back to the piano and began playing again—this time a piece I didn't recognize. It started simply, almost childlike, then devolved into discordant chaos, his fingers striking the keys with increasing violence until the melody was lost in a storm of sound.

When he abruptly stopped, the silence felt deafening.

"Did you compose that?" I asked quietly.

He nodded once.

"What's it called?"

He wrote: *Truth.*

I moved to sit beside him on the bench, careful to maintain some distance. "Elliot, sometimes the truth is too heavy to carry alone."

His dark eyes met mine, filled with a knowledge too burdensome for his seventeen years. He wrote again, his hand trembling slightly: *Are you really here to teach me French?*

The directness of the question startled me. This boy was far more perceptive than anyone gave him credit for. I needed to tread carefully.

"I'm here because I believe in teaching," I said, choosing my words with precision. "But I also believe there are many kinds of lessons we learn in life. Some are in classrooms, some are... elsewhere."

He studied me intently, then wrote: *You're not what you seem.*

A chill ran down my spine. "Neither are you," I countered softly.

Something shifted in his expression—a decision being made. He closed his notebook, stood from the piano bench, and gestured for me to follow him. Curious, I did, through the winding corridors of the penthouse to a door I hadn't yet explored. He entered a code on the keypad—93827—and the door unlocked with a soft click.

We entered what appeared to be his bedroom—a surprisingly normal teenage space, with books stacked on every surface, a high-end computer setup, and walls covered with music posters and mathematical equations. He went directly to his desk, unlocking a drawer with a small key he kept on a chain around his neck.

From inside, he withdrew a small digital recorder, the kind journalists use for interviews. He held it for a moment, seeming to debate with himself, then pressed it into my hand with an intensity that spoke volumes.

"What is this?" I asked, though I suspected I already knew.

He wrote quickly: *Listen alone. Bathroom fan on. No devices nearby.*

The specificity of his instructions indicated a level of security awareness surprising in a teenager. I nodded, slipping the recorder into my pocket. "I will."

He wrote again: *Be careful who you trust. Even me.*

Before I could respond to this cryptic warning, a knock at the door startled us both. Elliot quickly closed the desk drawer as Albert Senior entered without waiting for a response.

"There you are," he said, eyes moving suspiciously between us. "This isn't the usual location for lessons, is it?"

"Elliot was showing me some music theory books," I lied smoothly. "I thought it might help integrate his interests with language learning."

Albert's expression softened slightly. "Creative approach. I appreciate your dedication, Ms. Fontaine." His gaze lingered on me a beat too long before turning to his son. "Elliot, your new medication arrived. Dr. Hoffman will be here at four to discuss the dosage."

Elliot nodded, his face resuming its usual mask of passive compliance.

"And Ms. Fontaine," Albert continued, "I hope you'll join us for dinner tonight. Lucas will be there, and I'd like to discuss Elliot's progress."

"Of course," I replied. "I'd be delighted."

After he left, Elliot wrote one more note: *Listen before dinner.*

I returned to my quarters, mind racing with questions. What had Elliot recorded? And why share it with me, a virtual stranger? The weight of the device in my pocket felt disproportionate to its size, as if it contained something explosive rather than just audio.

Following his instructions, I entered my bathroom, turned on the shower and fan, and placed my phone and other electronics in the bedroom. Then, sitting on the closed toilet lid, I pressed play.

What I heard made my blood run cold.

The recording started with muffled voices, then clarified—Lucas, clearly drunk, his words slurring.

"She was nothing, just some charity case from the East Side. Probably trying to scam us anyway."

Another voice—younger, hesitant. Elliot, before he stopped speaking. "But her face—the acid—she was screaming..."

"Shut up! You weren't even supposed to be there. If you tell anyone—"

"I won't tell! I promise!" The terror in young Elliot's voice was palpable.

"You better not. Dad would kill you if he knew you were spying. Besides, Winton fixed it. Paid her off. She's gone."

"But it wasn't right—"

The sound of a slap, then Lucas's voice, lower, threatening. "Nothing happened, understand? She was drunk, fell into a chemical cleaner. Accident. Say it."

"A-accident," Elliot stammered.

"Good boy. Now give me that fucking recorder."

Sounds of a struggle, then the audio cut out.

I sat frozen, the recorder clutched in my trembling hand. Elliot had been there that night. He had witnessed what Lucas and his friends did to me. And he had kept this evidence, hidden it away for years.

But why? And why share it with me now?

Unless...

A terrible suspicion formed in my mind. I replayed the recording, listening more carefully to Elliot's voice—the genuine horror, the youth in it. This wasn't recorded recently. This was from that night, seven years ago. Elliot had been just ten years old when he witnessed his brother's cruelty, when he was threatened into silence.

The timing matched perfectly with when he stopped speaking.

The revelation hit me like a physical blow. Elliot's selective mutism wasn't some neurological condition or autism as the family claimed. It was trauma—his mind's response to being forced to hold an unbearable truth.

For seven years, he had kept silent, carrying the weight of what he'd witnessed. And now, for some reason, he had chosen to share it with me.

Did he somehow know who I was? What I was here to do?

I played the recording one more time, listening for any clue I might have missed. At the very end, almost inaudible beneath the struggle, I heard Elliot's young voice whisper, "I'll remember for her. I promise."

A promise kept for seven years, until I arrived.

I shut off the recorder and sat in stunned silence. Elliot wasn't just a bystander in this family's evil—he was another victim of it. The quiet, watchful boy who communicated through music had been silenced by the same people who had tried to silence me.

But unlike me, he hadn't escaped. He'd been living with his abusers, watching them prosper, unable to speak his truth.

I thought of his composition—"Truth"—with its childlike beginning and chaotic, violent development. It wasn't just music; it was autobiography. The story of a child whose innocence was shattered, whose voice was stolen.

The shower continued to run as I considered this unexpected ally. Using Elliot in my revenge hadn't been part of my original plan. He was collateral damage, a necessary sacrifice in the destruction of the Alberts. But now...

Could I use this? Should I?

The moral question felt foreign after years of single-minded focus on revenge. But the image of ten-year-old Elliot, terrified into silence by his own brother, awakened something in me I thought had died along with Cynthia—compassion.

Yet compassion was a luxury I couldn't afford. I had come here to destroy this family, Elliot included. His suffering, while unfortunate, couldn't deter me from my purpose.

Could it?

I turned off the shower and returned to my bedroom, hiding the recorder in a hollowed-out book on my shelf. Tonight at dinner, I would study Elliot more carefully. I needed to understand what game he was playing before deciding how to proceed.

As I dressed for dinner—selecting a modest navy dress that suggested professionalism with just a hint of femininity—I contemplated the new dynamic. If Elliot knew what had happened to me, if he had been keeping this evidence all these years, what did he want? Redemption? Justice?

Or was he playing a longer game, one I couldn't yet see?

I applied my makeup with practiced precision, ensuring the subtle contouring that maintained Claire Fontaine's bone structure. In the mirror, Cynthia was nowhere to be seen—the scared girl from the East Side was buried beneath layers of careful reinvention.

But as I stared at my reflection, I realized something had changed. The cold determination that had driven me for three years now had a companion—a flicker of uncertainty. Elliot's recording had complicated my neat narrative of villains and vengeance. It had introduced the possibility that not everyone in this family deserved the same fate.

I pushed the thought away. Sentimentality was a weakness I couldn't indulge. I had a plan, carefully constructed and meticulously researched. Deviating now because of one traumatized teenager would be foolish.

As I prepared to join the Alberts for dinner, I reminded myself of the scars hidden beneath my designer clothes, of the years spent in pain and planning. I couldn't falter now, not when I was finally positioned to execute my revenge.

And yet, Elliot's written warning echoed in my mind: *Be careful who you trust. Even me.*

Indeed, I would be careful. With all of them. Even the silent boy who seemed to know more than he should about who I really was.