Chapter 2: Shadows in the East Wing
The east wing smelled of damp wallpaper and forgotten history. After the confrontation in the grand living room, the man in the suit—whom I later heard the staff call Mr. Vance—had ordered me to my quarters while he consulted with his lawyers over the phone. I sat on the edge of the narrow iron cot, rubbing my wrists where the chill of the mansion had settled deep into my joints. The black-and-white maid's uniform felt restrictive, a costume of servitude that no longer protected me from the gathering storm.
A soft tap at the heavy oak door broke the silence. I stood up quickly, smoothing my skirt. The door creaked open to reveal Martha, the head cook, her apron stained with flour and her eyes wide with anxiety. She slipped inside, carrying a small bundle wrapped in a linen cloth and a chipped mug of black coffee.
"He's locked himself in the study with the security footage from the hall," Martha whispered, glancing over her shoulder into the dim corridor. "And he's asking about the pantry logs from the last three months. Everything we tried to hide—the canceled meat deliveries, the locked thermostat controls in the winter wing—it's all on paper."
I took the coffee, letting the warmth seep into my palms. "I didn't lie to him, Martha. Your employer left his own father wrapped in a blanket while the heating bills were being trimmed to pad quarterly bonuses."
"It wasn't him," Martha murmured, shaking her head slowly. "Well, not entirely. It was the board. That cousin of his, Julian, who handles the estate finances. He's been starving the budget to force a sale of the property to the development syndicate."
That piece of the puzzle clicked into place, snapping the chaotic household dynamics into sharp focus. I remembered the old man's trembling hand pointing at me, declaring me the sole witness to his survival. It wasn't just a domestic dispute; it was a corporate siege disguised as family neglect.
"He took the teacup," I said quietly, staring into the dark coffee. "He thinks I was trying to poison him or soften him up for a grab."
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"He doesn't know what to think," Martha replied, laying a reassuring hand on my arm. "He's been flying back and forth from the city, buried in spreadsheets, trusting Julian to run the estate. He walked into that living room tonight expecting an unruly maid, not his father's ghost."
Before I could answer, a heavy thud echoed from the main hall—the sound of a door slamming shut with enough force to rattle the windowpanes. Footsteps approached our corridor, measured and heavy. Martha snatched up her empty tray, slipped past me into the shadows, and vanished into the labyrinth of the service stairs just as Vance's silhouette filled the doorway.
