Chapter 3 - Slipping Past the Service Stairs
The heavy oak door of the basement staff quarters remained locked from the outside, the deadbolt thrown with a solid, final click that had echoed off the damp concrete walls minutes earlier. Richard and Caroline had made their stance clear when they bundled me down the narrow stairs after the boy's voice had shattered the fragile silence of the hallway. They didn't want a conversation, and they certainly didn't want an explanation. They wanted me out of sight, neutralized, and quieted while they figured out how to restore the glossy veneer of their evening.
I stood by the service door, my bright yellow rubber gloves still pulled tight over my hands, a stark, absurd reminder of the champagne tray I had dropped against the mahogany side table upstairs. My breathing was shallow, measured in the dim amber light of the utility corridor. The air smelled of damp stone, old bleach, and the distant, rich scent of roasting beef drifting down from the main kitchens overhead.
Panic was a cold weight in my chest, but beneath it sat a sharper, colder anger. I couldn't just sit here and wait for them to decide my fate once the gala concluded and their guests had departed into the night. If I walked out empty-handed, my word against theirs in a town where Richard’s foundation funded half the county infrastructure, I wouldn't last a day. I needed something tangible. I needed physical proof that tied that hidden brick recess to their custody, something left behind in the dark.
Reaching up, I pulled the bobby pin from my tied-back brown hair. My fingers, clumsy inside the thick rubber of the gloves, fumbled with the metal wire before I managed to strip them off, dropping the yellow latex onto a wooden folding chair. With bare fingers, I slid the thin wire into the keyhole of the old brass latch.
The lock was decades old, its internal tumblers worn and loose from years of neglect. I pressed my ear against the cool wood of the door, listening to the muffled thrum of a string quartet playing somewhere above through the ceiling vents. I wiggled the pin, feeling for the faint catch of the spring. A quiet click whispered through the doorframe. I turned the knob, and the latch gave way with a soft, forgiving pop.
I slipped out into the dim service corridor, keeping close to the shadows where the plaster peeled in gray flakes from the foundation walls. The back stairs creaked beneath my black shoes as I climbed upward toward the butler's pantry, moving with the practiced quiet of someone who had spent months cleaning every hidden corner of the estate.
The pantry was quiet, illuminated only by the faint amber glow spilling in from the tall stained-glass windows overlooking the rear courtyard. Plates, silver polish, and crates of empty glassware lined the mahogany counters. I slipped past the industrial sink and knelt by the stainless-steel waste bin tucked beneath the prep table.
My fingers sifted through the discarded napkins, wine corks, and paper wrappings until they brushed against something hard and crinkly. I pulled it out into the dim light: a crumpled plastic water bottle label. I squinted at the small print near the barcode. It bore a distribution stamp from a commercial supply company based out of Westmont, three towns over—an industrial supplier that only delivered in bulk pallets, not the kind of brand bought casually at a local grocery store. It was a direct, physical link to the steady provisioning of the brick alcove. I folded the small piece of plastic carefully and tucked it deep into the pocket of my black maid dress.
Footsteps echoed suddenly down the arched stone hallway outside the pantry doors—heavy, measured strides accompanied by the rustle of silk. Caroline's voice, clipped and sharp, cut through the quiet air, speaking to someone about security rotations for the north gate.
I didn't hesitate. I turned toward the far end of the pantry, pushing open the heavy swing door that led directly into the side conservatory. The night air hit me like a splash of cold water, smelling of damp earth, trimmed boxwoods, and the distant asphalt of the county road. Glass panels stretched high above me, framing a sky choked with low, heavy gray clouds.
May you like
Stepping off the flagstone path into the shadows of the manicured hedge rows, I kept my head down, bypassed the illuminated gravel driveway where the valet cars idled, and slipped through a low wrought-iron service gate. The heavy metal latch clicked shut behind me, swallowed instantly by the wind rustling through the pines. I was out, walking fast into the darkness with the delivery label pressed against my palm, ready for whatever waited on the other side of the estate gates.
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