Chapter 2 - The Sound of Breaking Glass
The sound didn't come from the ground floor, where the heavy oak doors muffled the wind; it echoed down through the ventilation shafts like a gunshot fired in an empty cathedral.
Crash.
A single, sharp fracture of leaded glass. Then the heavy thud of a mahogany wardrobe shifting against hardwood floors.
Ethan didn't blink. His hand, which had been resting casually at his side, dropped another inch toward the hem of his coat, though his fingers remained empty. His eyes were locked on the second-story window of the east wing—the exact window where Margaret Hargrove’s silhouette had lingered only a moment before.
“Stay here,” Ethan ordered, his voice dropping into a register so absolute it left no room for argument.
“Ethan, what’s going on?” I stepped forward instinctively, the cold wind whipping my hair across my face. “If she’s destroying the records—”
“She isn't destroying records,” Ethan interrupted, his gaze never leaving the window. “She’s trying to clear the board. Miller!”
The heavy oak side door swung open instantly. Miller stood in the threshold, having already deposited Noah in the safety of the west parlor.
“Boss?”
“Secure the east wing staircase,” Ethan commanded, his words spitting out like rounds from a suppressed automatic. “Cut the power to the elevator shaft. If she tries to reach the service tunnel behind the laundry, use the gas. I want her breathing, Miller. I want to ask her whose name is on the second ledger.”
“On it,” Miller muttered, disappearing back into the cavernous shadows of the hallway with terrifying speed.
Ethan turned back to me, his stormy gray eyes narrowing. For the first time, I saw the true weight of the man. Beneath the impeccable tailoring and the cold authority of a syndicate boss was a father who had spent three years believing his son's body was betraying him, while all along, the poison had been administered by the hand that tucked Noah into bed every night.
“You,” Ethan said, his voice dangerously soft. “You knew within a week.”
“I knew something was wrong,” I corrected, holding my ground against the biting wind. “You don't spend eight years in rehabilitation wards without recognizing the difference between natural atrophy and chemical suppression. The charts didn't match the reflexes.”
“And you decided to play detective in a house where men disappear for missing shipments?”
“I decided a seven-year-old boy deserved to stand up on his own two feet,” I snapped back, my anger finally overriding my fear. “If you don't like how I handle your son's care, Mr. Caldwell, you can hand me my final paycheck as soon as you finish cleaning out your estate's rats.”
Ethan stared at me for a long, breathless second. Then, a ghost of a humorless smirk touched the corner of his mouth—disappearing almost as quickly as it came.
May you like
“Go to the west parlor,” he said quietly. “Lock the door from the inside. Do not open it for anyone—not for Miller, not for me—unless I give the three-knock signal.”
Before I could answer, he turned on his heel and strode toward the mansion, his black overcoat billowing behind him like the wings of a predatory bird.
