Chapter 10 - The Lake Carriage House
The gravel under the tires of the compact rental sedan crunched too loudly, so I cut the engine fifty yards back, coasting the last stretch into the heavy shade of a dense cedar grove. Outside the windshield, the lake carriage house sat like an abandoned relic of the estate’s grander past. Built from weathered gray timber and peeling white trim, it was tucked far behind the main property’s formal gardens, accessible only by a neglected service lane choked with blackberry briars and tall, dry weeds.
I checked my pocket, feeling the cold metal edge of the small brass key I’d taken from the drawer in the basement hallway, then pushed the car door open. The autumn air smelled of stagnant pond water and decaying pine needles. My black maid dress was gone, replaced by a pair of dark denim jeans and a heavy wool cardigan I’d bought at a thrift store off the interstate, but the caution in my steps remained the same. I kept low as I crossed the open gravel clearing, my boots sinking slightly into the damp earth, moving toward the side of the wooden structure where a single, grime-caked window looked out over the water.
Pressing my shoulder against the weathered siding, I wiped a circle of dust away with the sleeve of my cardigan and peered inside.
The interior was dim, lit only by a weak shaft of gray light cutting through the high transom windows. In the center of the room sat a narrow iron cot, and draped across it was the familiar gray blanket. Beneath it, the small form of the young boy stirred, his shoulders hunched as he pulled his knees tight against his chest. Empty plastic water bottles were lined neatly along the floorboards beside the cot, just like the ones I’d found stacked in the brick alcove back at the mansion. He looked smaller out here, isolated by miles of empty woods and gray water.
A sharp, metallic scrape broke the quiet.
I froze, stepping back into the shadow of an overgrown lilac bush.
From around the front corner of the carriage house, the elegant woman appeared. She wore a tailored camel-suede coat that seemed entirely out of place against the rotting timber, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight, perfect chignon. In her hands, she carried a wicker basket filled with fresh supplies—more bottled water and a covered ceramic bowl. Her heels crunched purposefully on the gravel as she walked up to the heavy oak side door, pulled a brass key from her pocket, and slid it into the lock.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but my feet moved before I could second-guess the impulse. As the heavy door swung inward, creaking on dry hinges, I stepped out from the brush and strode across the clearing.
"Don't," I said, my voice sharp enough to cut through the quiet air.
The elegant woman spun around, her gloved hand flying to her throat, the wicker basket tipping slightly as she stared at me in disbelief. Color drained entirely from her face, leaving her skin chalky beneath her foundation.
"You," she breathed, her voice a thin, brittle hiss. "How did you—what are you doing here?"
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I didn't answer her question. Instead, I stepped firmly past her into the open doorway, planting my boot on the threshold so she couldn't swing the heavy wood shut and lock me out. Inside the dim room, the young boy lifted his head from the cot, his wide, frightened eyes locking onto mine through the gloom.
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