Chapter 4 - The Greenhouse Garden
The guard's heels scraped against the frozen earth as I held him against the timber wall, my knuckles white where I gripped his dark suit lapel. His breath plumed in the cold morning air, mixing with the sharp scent of pine resin and wood smoke drifting from the lodge's stone chimney. He was young, barely twenty-five, with the rigid posture of a private contractor hired out of a city security firm, not a hardened career criminal. He looked past my shoulder toward the main house, his jaw working as he weighed his employment contract against the sheer physical weight of my presence.
"She's in the west wing nursery," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave as he kept his hands raised near his chest. "Second floor. But you're not getting past the front corridor without a dozen more of us."
"I didn't come through the front," I said, letting go of his lapel with a sharp shove that sent him stumbling back against the woodpile.
I didn't give him a chance to reach for his radio. I turned my back on him, moving swiftly along the narrow gravel path that hugged the perimeter of the stone lodge. The upper gardens gave way to an old Victorian greenhouse, its glass panes clouded with winter condensation and grime. The iron door was unlatched, swinging slightly on a rusted hinge with every gust of wind coming down from the timberline.
I slipped inside, the air instantly shifting from dry cold to humid, stagnant heat laden with the scent of wet soil, rotting geraniums, and damp cedar staging benches. Sunlight filtered through the dirty glass overhead, casting long, fractured shadows across the stone floor. I paused by a stack of terracotta pots, listening. From the far end of the greenhouse, near a set of double wooden doors that connected to the main house cellar, I heard a faint crunch of gravel and the distinctive scuff of small shoes.
Kneeling down beside a rusted wheelbarrow, I spotted something bright against the dark mulch. It was a small pink hair tie—the exact shade of the floral dress she had been wearing at the dining room table hours ago. My chest tightened with a sharp, physical ache. I picked it up, feeling the elasticity worn from use, and slipped it into the pocket of my cream blazer. She had been here recently. The trail was fresh, and the people holding her were moving faster than I had anticipated.
May you like
I crossed the length of the greenhouse in three silent strides, testing the handle of the wooden cellar door. It gave way with a muffled click, revealing a dark, narrow brick corridor that sloped upward toward the heart of the estate.
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