Chapter 10 - The Threshold of the West Wing
The silence in the library stretched taut, held together only by the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock near the mahogany desk and the low, heavy breathing of the security guard standing midway across the parquet floor. Mr. Moretti did not raise his voice when he stepped further into the room, his dark tailored suit jacket absorbing the morning light rather than reflecting it. He moved with a quiet, deliberate economy of motion that instantly halted the guard's advance toward the spiral staircase.
"Hold your position," Moretti said, his tone low and even, carrying the absolute weight of command. He did not look at the guard; his dark eyes were fixed straight ahead, tracking the slight rustle of the velvet drapes where I stood pressed against the cold plaster of the window recess.
The guard hesitated, his hand hovering inches from the leather holster at his hip. "Mr. Moretti. The network ping—it originated from the pump house using legacy credentials. Somebody is tampering with the sub-grid."
"I am aware of the alert," Moretti replied, closing the distance between them with slow, measured strides. He stopped three paces short of the guard, his open-collared black shirt revealing the sharp line of his throat. "You are assigned to the perimeter security detail, not internal network diagnostics. Return to your post at the main gate. Let the technical department handle the ghost in the machine."
"Sir, with respect—"
"That was an order," Moretti interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, losing any remaining trace of conversational warmth. It was a sound that brooked no argument, a cold boundary drawn in iron and stone.
The guard swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he glanced once more toward the dark mouth of the spiral stairs before giving a stiff, professional nod. "Yes, sir." He turned sharply on his heel, his heavy boots striking the wood floor in a rapid retreat that ended with the heavy oak library doors clicking shut behind him.
The moment the latch engaged, Moretti turned his head slightly toward the window recess. "You can step out now. The draft from those old sash windows will ruin that uniform."
I pushed away from the plaster, smoothing the front of my black-and-white dress with trembling fingers. My heart hammered against my ribs, the residual ache in my bruised arm a dull, persistent throb that kept me anchored to reality. I walked out from the shadow of the drapes, stopping a few feet away from him.
"You knew about the credentials," I said, my voice barely louder than a whisper. "The former supervisor's profile. You knew someone was going to try to access the system from inside."
Moretti looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, the harsh angles of his face softened only slightly by the pale gray light filtering through the leaded glass. "I know everything that enters or leaves this estate, and I know when ghosts refuse to stay buried," he said quietly. He reached out, his fingers brushing past my shoulder to touch the heavy wooden window frame, locking the latch securely. "The question isn't who is trying to log in. The question is why you were hiding behind those curtains instead of finishing your assignment in the East Parlor."
"I wasn't hiding from my work," I answered, lifting my chin despite the exhaustion clawing at the back of my eyes. "I was listening. Just like you were."
May you like
A faint, humorless shadow of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. "You have a dangerous habit of being in the right place to see things you shouldn't, Miss Vance. Come with me. If we're going to hunt ghosts, we'll do it downstairs where the walls are thick enough to keep out the morning."
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