Chapter 2 - THE VOICE BEHIND THE DOOR
The silence that followed those words was heavier than lead. Lena sat upright on the edge of her small twin mattress, the rough cotton sheets bunched tightly within her trembling fists. Her fingernails bit into her palms until the sharp sting of pain grounded her in reality. The grandfather clock in the distant corridor ticked with mechanical cruelty, each beat echoing through the cavernous emptiness of Blackwood Manor.
11:18 p.m.
"Lena," the whisper came again, muffled through the thick mahogany paneling of her bedroom door. It was low, gravelly, and carried the precise, razor-sharp cadence of Adrian Blackwood. Yet it bore an inflection she had never heard him use: raw, desperate terror. "Open the door. Don't turn on the lamp. Just turn the bolt."
Her breath hitched in her throat. Her instincts screamed at her to dive under the covers, to lock herself in the en-suite bathroom and wait for the dawn. But curiosity—that lethal, stubborn flaw that had dragged her down into the damp cellar only hours earlier—forced her bare feet onto the cold hardwood floor.
She tiptoed forward, the floorboards groaning ever so slightly beneath her weight. Through the crack beneath the door, a faint silver sliver of moonlight outlined a pair of dark shoes.
"Who are you?" she breathed, pressing her forehead against the cool wood. "Mr. Blackwood is downstairs. He... he took the photo from me."
A bitter, fractured chuckle drifted through the keyhole. "The man who took that photo from you wears my clothes, Lena. He signs my checks. But if you value your life, you will understand that Adrian Blackwood died three years ago—or he is about to die tonight."
A shockwave of ice surged down Lena’s spine. "What are you talking about?"
"The cellar wasn't locked to keep you out," the voice hissed, urgency turning the words jagged. "It was locked to keep him from realizing someone is watching. He’s scouring the security feeds right now. He knows someone tripped the infrared beam near the vintage crates. When he realizes your keycard accessed the basement wing, he won't ask you polite questions in the dark. He will erase you, just like he erased her."
"The woman in the picture?" Lena asked, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "The little girl with her face scratched out?"
"The girl was—"
A sharp metallic clang reverberated from the far end of the west wing corridor. The sound of a heavy steel door slamming shut.
The presence outside her door stiffened instantly. "He's coming up the service stairs," the whisper grew frantic. "Do not trust Mrs. Collins. Do not drink anything she pours. And whatever you do, tomorrow morning, find the brass skeleton key hidden inside the third volume of Dante’s Inferno in the library. It opens his private bedroom. Under his bed, there is a locked wooden box. You have to read what’s inside before he moves it."
"Why me?" Lena begged, tears of blind panic pricking the corners of her eyes. "I'm just a maid! I only started three weeks ago!"
"Because you have her eyes, Lena. And because you are the only person in this cursed house he cannot bring himself to shoot on sight."
Before she could form another word, soft, rhythmic footfalls rushed away down the carpeted hall, fading toward the servant quarters' emergency fire exit. Seconds later, a much heavier, deliberate tread ascended the main staircase.
Lena scrambled backward, throwing herself onto the mattress and yanking the duvet up to her chin just as the shadow fell over her threshold again. This time, no one whispered. No one asked for permission. The brass doorknob jiggled violently once, twice, testing the lock.
Lena clamped a hand over her mouth, biting back a scream. The silhouette outside lingered for a suffocating minute, casting a long, sinister shadow through the gap under the door. Then, with a low, menacing hum that sounded like a predator deciding to toy with its prey before the kill, the shadow moved away.
Dawn broke over the estate not with warmth, but with a suffocating blanket of gray mist rolling off Lake Michigan. Lena didn't sleep a single wink. Every creak of the mansion sounded like an executioner approaching. When her alarm chimed at 6:00 a.m., she dragged herself into her starched black uniform, pinning her apron with numb fingers.
She entered the sprawling kitchen with caution. The scent of roasted espresso beans and fried rosemary bacon filled the air. Mrs. Collins was already at the marble island, meticulously plating a poached egg and smoked salmon onto fine porcelain.
"Good morning, Lena," Mrs. Collins said without turning around. Her tone was eerily pleasant, stripped entirely of the cold detachment she had exhibited the night before.
"Morning, Mrs. Collins," Lena replied, trying to keep her vocal cords steady.
"Mr. Blackwood has requested his breakfast in the library today," the older woman continued, sliding a silver dome over the plate and turning around with a chilling, vacant smile. "He specifically asked that you bring it to him."
Lena looked down at the silver tray. Beside the plate sat a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Floating near the surface of the amber liquid was a faint, iridescent film that dissipated as she watched.
Do not drink anything she pours. Do not trust Mrs. Collins.
"Of course," Lena whispered, picking up the heavy silver tray.
Walking through the grand halls felt like marching down death row. Her shoes made no sound on the Persian runners. When she reached the massive carved double doors of the private library, her hands trembled so violently that the silverware rattled against the porcelain.
She took a ragged breath, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
The library was a towering two-story room lined with thousands of leather-bound books, smelling of old parchment, cedar, and expensive Cuban tobacco. Adrian Blackwood was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the manicured gardens shrouded in fog. He wore a crisp charcoal suit, tailored to perfection, his broad shoulders squared with effortless authority.
"Set it on the desk, Lena," he commanded without turning.
His voice was identical to the one outside her door. Identical, yet stripped of that manic desperation. Here stood the ruthless mafia kingpin Chicago whispered about in terrified tones.
"Yes, Mr. Blackwood." She placed the tray gently on the mahogany desk. As she did, her gaze darted toward the towering bookshelves behind him. Her eyes scanned the spines frantically. Dante... Dante...
There it was. Third shelf from the bottom. Three dark red leather volumes of The Divine Comedy.
"You look pale this morning," Adrian remarked, slowly turning around. His piercing hazel eyes locked onto hers with terrifying precision. He walked toward the desk, each step measured, predatory. He stopped just inches away, his towering frame casting a shadow over her. "Did you have trouble sleeping?"
"The storm was quite loud, sir," she lied, forcing her gaze to stay fixed on his silk tie rather than his intimidating face.
"Storms have a way of unearthing things that were meant to stay buried," Adrian said softly, reaching out. His fingers, calloused and warm, brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The touch was unexpectedly gentle, completely at odds with his reputation, yet it sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through her veins. "Tell me, Lena. Did anyone visit you last night?"
Her breath trapped in her throat. The question was a trap, a razor-thin tripwire waiting to snap.
"No, sir," she whispered, looking up into his eyes. "No one."
Adrian’s gaze darkened, a storm brewing within his irises. "Lying is a very dangerous habit in this house, little bird." Suddenly, his hand dropped from her hair to the desk, his knuckles whitening as he leaned in close. "Because the security system logged a breach outside your room at 11:17 p.m. And whoever was out there dropped this."
From his trouser pocket, Adrian produced a small object and slammed it onto the mahogany surface right beside her hand.
May you like
It was an antique silver locket.
Lena gasped, her hand flying to her chest. The locket was tarnished, its filigree pattern unmistakable. It was the exact duplicate of the locket her late mother had placed around her neck the day she was surrendered to the foster care system eighteen years ago—a locket Lena had lost when she was only six years old.
