Chapter 5 - Morning Light Across the Console Table
Sunlight cut across the cream-colored marble floors of the foyer in sharp, pale angles, turning the dust motes suspended in the air into glittering sparks. I dragged the blue cleaning bucket across the entrance hall, the small plastic wheels clicking rhythmically against the stone. In my green uniform with its stiff white collar and apron, I moved with practiced quiet, wiping down the baseboards and checking every corner for any trace of the night before. Last night’s midnight encounter with Mateo upstairs still hummed beneath my skin like a struck wire, but the morning demanded its own rigid choreography.
The heavy grandfather clock near the wrought-iron staircase struck seven. A moment later, the sharp click of leather shoes sounded from the upper landing. Julian descended the sweeping staircase, impeccably dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, his white shirt collar crisp against his throat. He did not look down at me as he reached the bottom step, though he paused for a fraction of a second near the console table where the framed family photograph rested beside a silver card tray.
"The press arrive at six this evening for the pre-gala walkthrough," Julian said, his voice flat and level as he adjusted his gold-plated cufflinks. He pulled his smartphone from his breast pocket, his thumb swiping across the glass. "Make sure the west wing sitting room is spotless. I want no loose papers, no stray items out of place. The board members are inspecting the residence before the dinner."
"Yes, Mr. Cameron," I murmured, keeping my head bowed slightly as I dipped my rag into the blue bucket.
His phone began to vibrate against his palm. He lifted it to his ear, his expression hardening instantly into the practiced mask he wore for foundation donors and city officials. "Cameron here. Yes... confirm the Times reporter for the six-thirty slot. No, we aren't changing the venue. The ballroom is finalized." He strode past me toward the front double doors, his stride long and purposeful, entirely absorbed in the machinery of his public life. The heavy oak door swung shut behind him, sealing off the foyer into a sudden, heavy hush.
I exhaled slowly, resting my hands on the rim of the blue bucket. The silence in the mansion never felt empty; it felt pressurized, like a diving bell holding back the dark water.
Ten minutes later, I carried a small tray into the formal dining room. The mahogany table, long enough to seat twelve, held only a single setting of fine china. Mateo sat slumped in one of the high-backed chairs, his burgundy polo shirt slightly askew, his small shoulders rounded as he stared down at a silver bowl of sliced fruit and warm porridge. He hadn't touched a bite.
"You need to eat something, Mateo," I said softly, setting the tray down on the sideboard before stepping closer to his chair.
He didn't look up. His small fingers were clenched tightly around the edge of the linen placemat, his knuckles white. Across the room, tall windows looked out over the manicured boxwood hedges of the front lawn where Julian’s black sedan was already disappearing down the gravel drive.
"I'm not hungry," Mateo whispered, his voice small and flat.
"Your father wants you to have your breakfast," I replied, kneeling slightly to bring myself closer to his eye level.
Mateo finally raised his gaze, his dark eyes wide and unblinking, carrying a weight no six-year-old should ever have to bear. He stared at me across the formal dining table, saying nothing, his silence more eloquent and more terrifying than any tears. He looked back toward the heavy mahogany double doors leading out to the main hallway, as if he expected someone else to walk in—or perhaps as if he were listening for sounds from behind walls that had been sealed for years.
I reached out and gently touched his sleeve, feeling the stiff cotton of his polo shirt. "We'll get through the day, Mateo. Just stay close to the study this morning. I'll be finishing the downstairs rooms."
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He gave a slow, barely perceptible nod, his eyes dropping back to his untouched plate. The morning sun crept higher across the polished floorboards, offering no warmth, only a stark illumination of everything the household tried so desperately to hide.
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