Chapter 7 - The Empty Nursery and the Dropped Keycard
The guard’s reluctant hesitation was all the clearance I needed. I didn't rush past him, because sudden movements invited a tackle, but I walked with an unrelenting pace that forced him to either step aside or use physical violence in broad daylight. He held his ground for a fraction of a second longer, then shifted his shoulder just enough to let me slide by.
"Mr. Vance," he muttered under his breath, his eyes darting toward the distant security station at the end of the hall. "You've got three minutes before the patrol loops back. Use them wisely."
I didn't answer. I reached the brass handles of the double doors leading into the disputed wing, my fingers curling around the cold metal. The latch gave way with a muffled click, and I stepped inside.
The air in the nursery was stale, smelling faintly of lavender sachet and old wool. It was a large, high-ceilinged room furnished with expensive mahogany dressers, a velvet-upholstered rocking chair, and a low shelving unit lined with pristine children's books that looked as though they had never been read. Sunlight streamed through the tall, leaded windows, cutting pale beams across the hardwood floor, illuminating floating motes of dust.
It was empty.
My chest tightened, a cold knot forming behind my ribs. The pink floral dress she had been wearing at breakfast was nowhere in sight. On the small craft table near the bay window, however, lay an open sketchpad. A box of colored pencils sat beside it, and a single half-finished drawing showed a crayon-rendered house with crooked windows and a oversized black SUV parked in the driveway. A child's hasty, uneven handwriting scrawled across the bottom corner spelled out Grandma's secret house.
I crossed the room in two strides, flipping through the pad. Every page showed the same recurring motif: tall stone gates, a long winding road, and a generic two-story brick structure tucked behind thick timber.
Footsteps echoed softly from the hallway outside—heavy, measured steps that didn't belong to a sympathetic guard.
I whirled around, scanning the perimeter of the room for another exit. On the far side, half-concealed behind a heavy velvet curtain, was a narrow service door left slightly ajar. I slipped through it just as the main nursery doors clicked open.
I pressed my back against the cool plaster of the narrow landing beyond, holding my breath.
"He's not here," a sharp, unfamiliar voice whispered from inside the nursery—a woman's tone, crisp and managerial. "Check the balcony. Mrs. Harrington wants this floor cleared before the transport arrives."
I looked down at my feet. Resting near the threshold of the service stairs was a black plastic keycard, dropped carelessly on the carpet. I knelt, picked it up, and felt the smooth surface. It was encoded for the sub-basement access—the estate's internal utility and archive level.
May you like
The sound of footsteps moving toward the balcony gave me my cue. I turned down the dark, unpainted metal stairs, descending into the belly of the house.
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