Chapter 4: The Courtyard Exit
The service elevator carried me down to the basement level in a slow, grinding hum of rusty cables. My duffel bag felt light over my shoulder, holding little more than two changes of clothes, a worn notebook, and the brass keycard.
When the doors slid open, I stepped out into the damp, echoing stone-walled basement that led to the rear courtyard exit. But as I rounded the corner toward the heavy iron-studded wooden doors, two bulky private security guards stepped out from the shadows of the laundry chute, blocking my path.
"Where do you think you're going with that bag, girl?" the taller guard demanded, folding his arms across his broad chest. His expression was bored, routine, the look of a man used to enforcing petty rules for wealthy employers.
"Off duty," I said, keeping my tone neutral, stepping back slightly. "Mrs. Sterling gave me the night off."
"Mrs. Sterling didn't say anything about anyone leaving tonight," the second guard grunted, stepping forward to block the remaining gap. "Orders are nobody leaves the grounds until the morning audit. Turn around and go back upstairs."
My mind raced. The woman in red must have anticipated my exit and alerted security before I even packed my bag. If I went back upstairs, I would be trapped in the staff quarters with no way out.
I reached into my coat pocket, my fingers brushing against the cold brass of the keycard the mafia boss had given me. He had mentioned the private courtyard exit used by visiting guests—far away from the main service gates.
"I left my jacket in the East Wing guest parlor," I lied smoothly, pointing back down the intersecting stone hallway. "If I don't grab it now, housekeeping will blame me in the morning."
The guards exchanged a skeptical glance. The taller one grunted, tilting his head toward the stairs. "Make it quick. And don't try wandering near the front gates."
"Understood," I murmured.
May you like
I turned and walked briskly down the hallway as if complying, but the moment I rounded the corner out of their line of sight, I broke into a silent sprint. I ducked through the old coal-storage passage, navigating the pitch-black stone corridor by memory alone until I reached the heavy iron latch of the courtyard garden door.
I slipped the brass keycard into the heavy deadbolt mechanism. With a soft, mechanical click, the latch yielded. I threw my weight against the heavy wood, slipping out into the damp night air just as the distant shouts of the guards echoed down the stone passage behind me.
