Chapter 6 - Through the Slat Blind
The cedar-scented air inside the second-floor linen closet was cool against my skin, the wool blankets stacked around me muting the sound of my own breathing. Through the vertical wooden slats of the closet door, the hallway outside remained dim, illuminated only by the pale gray light filtering through the high casement windows at the end of the wing. My fingers still ached from the tight grip I’d kept on the silver platter downstairs, though I’d left it behind on a mahogany side table three corridors away. Now, my only concern was the muted footfalls clicking across the hardwood floor of Natalie’s bedroom directly opposite my hiding spot.
Brooke moved with a calculated, rhythmic precision. I could see the golden sheen of her silk robe brushing against the doorframe as she stepped inside the empty room. She wasn't searching with the frantic energy of someone looking for a runaway; her movements possessed the cold, methodical efficiency of an auditor balancing a fraudulent ledger. Through the narrow gap in the louvers, I watched her silhouette pause beside Natalie’s white oak dresser.
For a long moment, the mansion was utterly silent, save for the steady patter of rain against the exterior windowpanes down the hall. Then, Brooke's voice broke the quiet, pitched low and flat, carrying clearly across the threshold.
"No, she didn't leave her car," Brooke said into her phone, her tone devoid of warmth or panic. "The keys are still on the entryway tray. I checked."
I held my breath, pressing my shoulder harder against the cedar shelving behind me to keep from swaying. The fabric of my black uniform dress rasped softly against the wood, a sound that seemed deafening in the enclosed space.
"She isn't at the stables either," Brooke continued, pacing toward the bedside table. "And security didn't log an exit through the south gates. Whoever helped her didn't use the perimeter road."
A pause stretched out, filled only by the muffled, unintelligible murmur of the person on the other end of the line. Brooke listened, her head tilting slightly as her free hand reached out and touched the corner of Natalie’s bedside table. Her fingers traced the edge before dipping into the shallow drawer.
When she pulled her hand back, she was holding a small, leather-bound journal—Natalie’s diary, the one with the cracked spine and the ribbon bookmark hanging loose. Brooke flipped it open, her eyes scanning the handwritten pages in the dim morning light. She didn't read for long. With a sharp, decisive flick of her wrist, she closed the book and slid it deep into the large pocket of her gold silk robe.
"Clean up the loose end," Brooke murmured into the phone, her voice dropping another octave, carrying a lethal finality that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "I don't want any variables when the attorneys arrive at nine. Handle it quietly."
She didn't wait for a reply. She snapped the phone shut—or ended the call with a swipe of her thumb—and turned on her heel. The golden silk billowed around her ankles as she strode out of the bedroom, leaving the door standing wide open, exposing the rumpled white sheets of Natalie’s unmade bed to the empty hallway.
I waited, counting the slow seconds in my head, listening to the rhythmic tap-tap of Brooke’s slippers receding down the corridor toward the grand staircase. Only when the sound of her footsteps had faded completely into the ambient roar of the morning rain did I let out the breath I’d been holding.
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Slowly, carefully, I turned the brass latch of the linen closet door and eased it outward, stepping back onto the polished hardwood of the upper hall. The air felt heavier now, charged with a danger that had shifted from a vague dread into something sharp and imminent. Brooke was looking for a loose end, and down in the shadows of the ground floor, the man in the heavy black coat was still waiting. I pulled the collar of my dress straight, adjusted my footing, and began walking silently toward the private study, knowing time had just run out.
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