Chapter 4 - The Voice Behind the Velvet
The house fell into an uneasy quiet once darkness settled over the estate. Rain lashed against the tall stained-glass windows, sounding like handfuls of pebbles thrown against glass.
At 2:00 AM, the estate slept—or pretended to.
I left my small quarters on the third floor, moving barefoot across the cold parquet. My body ached with every step, but the curiosity and the sheer terror of what was happening beneath this roof propelled me forward. I carried a small penlight and a set of antique brass keys I had stolen from Mrs. Gable’s pantry board while she was preparing dinner.
I slipped past the velvet ropes guarding the south wing.
The air here smelled different. It didn't smell like lemon oil and beeswax like the rest of the house; it smelled of damp plaster, stale antiseptic, and something faintly sweet, like crushed almonds.
The corridor was pitch black. I didn't dare turn on the overhead sconces. I used my penlight, keeping the beam pointed strictly at the floor. The doors along this hall were all closed, their brass knobs cold to the touch.
At the end of the hall stood the master suite—a pair of towering carved oak doors.
A heavy, industrial slide-bolt had been newly installed on the exterior, screwed directly into the antique frame with raw steel screws. It was thrown shut, locked in place with a heavy Master padlock.
They hadn't just confined her; they had imprisoned her.
I approached the wood, my heart thumping violently against my ribs. I pressed my ear against the cold timber.
Silence.
"Madeline?" I whispered into the keyhole. "Mrs. Blackwood?"
For five seconds, nothing answered except the drumming of the storm outside. Then, the sound of dragging fabric moved across the floor on the other side. A trembling breath hitched against the wood.
"Clara?" A voice rasped. It was cracked, hollowed out by dehydration, barely audible. "Is that... the nanny?"
"Yes," I breathed, pressing closer. "I have Leo. Leo is safe. He wasn't hurt."
A violent, ragged sob tore through the keyhole. It was so raw, so filled with agony, that it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It was not the sound of a cold-blooded child murderer; it was the sound of a woman being torn apart from the inside out.
"He's alive..." she wept, her fingers clawing against the inside of the door. "Oh God, he's alive. You caught him... you actually caught him..."
"Why did you do it?" I demanded, the memory of that terrible video feed flashing before my eyes. "I saw the monitor, Madeline! You stood on that balcony and opened your hands! You dropped your own baby!"
"It wasn't... it wasn't me," she choked out, her voice dropping to a frantic whisper. "You don't understand... the video... they cut the angle..."
"What do you mean they cut the angle?"
"Look at the study," she whispered, her words tumbling over each other in sheer panic. "Richard's private safe behind the portrait of his grandfather. The raw server drive. Not the foyer monitor... the master feed. Angle 4A and 4C!"
"Madeline, who gave you the injection? I found an ampoule by the railing!"
There was a sudden, sharp intake of breath on the other side of the door.
"Scopolamine," she whispered, her voice trembling with cold terror. "The devil's breath. It makes you... you have no will. You do whatever they tell you to do, and you remember nothing. But I fought it... I tried to pull back, but—"
Heavy footsteps sounded at the base of the south wing stairs.
A flashlight beam danced across the ceiling of the corridor.
"Clara?" a deep voice barked.
It wasn't Richard. It was Arthur Cole, Richard's head of private security—a retired mercenary who never smiled and never left the grounds.
"Run," Madeline gasped from behind the door. "If Cole catches you, you will never leave this estate!"
May you like
I killed my penlight, ducked into the shadows of an adjoining linen closet, and pulled the door shut just as the heavy, combat-booted steps rounded the corner into the hall.
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