Chapter 7 - The Study Door Left Ajar
I hurried down the grand staircase, my heels making no sound on the heavy wool runner that muffled the cool dawn air. My hands still trembled slightly from the time spent pressed against the linen closet louvers, watching Brooke dial her phone with that terrifying, rhythmic precision. Every fiber of my training told me to stay in the service corridors, to keep my head down, to polish the silver and pretend I hadn't seen the man in the wet black winter coat step out of the dark hallway. But the man was already moving, carving a swift, silent path toward the ground-floor study where the estate's private ledgers were kept.
I reached the bottom landing just as he slipped through the heavy mahogany double doors of the study. The room smelled of old paper, leather, and faint pipe tobacco—a room Brooke kept locked during the day unless she was reviewing accounts. I pushed the door open just enough to slide inside, the heavy wood groaning a quiet protest on its brass hinges.
"Stay by the door," he whispered over his shoulder. His voice was low, gravelly from the cold rain, his dark hair damp and clinging to his forehead. He didn't wait for my answer before turning to the wall panel beside the oak shelving unit.
The security keypad mounted next to the bookcase suddenly flashed a sharp, amber warning light. A soft, high-pitched mechanical chirp pulsed from the unit, rhythmic and insistent. My breath caught in my throat. The silent alarm. By tying into the estate's main hub, Brooke would receive a direct alert on her tablet the second an unverified code failed or an override was attempted.
"You tripped it," I murmured, stepping closer, my hands gripping the edge of my white apron. "Brooke is going to know immediately. We don't have minutes."
"I know," he said, his eyes fixed on the small digital readout. He didn't panic; his fingers moved with a practiced, deliberate speed over the raised rubber buttons. "She hasn't updated the master bypass since the spring audit. If the old sequence still holds..."
He punched in a sequence of six numbers. The amber light flickered, hovered for a tense second between red and green, and then settled into a steady, solid emerald. The electronic lock on the mahogany desk across the room clicked open with a heavy, hollow thud.
"Help me find it," he said, turning toward the desk.
I didn't hesitate. I crossed the Persian rug, pulled open the center drawer of the heavy mahogany desk, and began sorting through stacks of receipts, property titles, and bound leather journals. The man moved to the side cabinets, his knuckles brushing against polished wood as he checked the lower compartments. The rain continued to lash against the tall leaded glass windows overlooking the rear gardens, a steady, drumming roar that masked our movements from the rest of the silent mansion.
"Here," I whispered, pulling a thick, unlabelled black ledger from beneath a false bottom in the center drawer. The cover was cold and stiff, worn at the corners. I flipped the first page. Columns of figures, unfamiliar names, and transaction codes stared back at me in Brooke's sharp, sloping handwriting. Among them, several dates matched the weeks leading up to Natalie's disappearance.
"That's it," the man said, leaning over my shoulder. The faint scent of rain and cold wool drifted off his heavy coat. He reached out, his calloused fingers steadying the cover as I held the ledger open. "That's what she's been hiding."
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Before I could turn to the next page, a faint, metallic sound echoed from the far end of the hallway—the distinct click of a door latch lifting, followed by the slow, measured scuff of footsteps on the polished hardwood floor. Someone was coming down the east wing toward the study.
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