Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN BEHIND THE LOCKED DOOR
“Your mother is directly above a real fire, and someone has locked her inside?”
Julian Ashford's voice was dangerously quiet.
The security officer standing before him nodded.
“The bracelet is transmitting from the east wing, sir. Third floor. The old family archive.”
Julian turned toward the door.
“Get the firefighters there. Now.”
I followed him before anyone could stop me.
“Brooke, stay downstairs,” he ordered.
“Sir, the main staircase doesn't reach that room anymore. The renovation sealed the connecting hallway.”
He stopped.
“How do you know?”
“Because I clean the east wing every Thursday. There's a service staircase behind the linen storage room.”
For one terrible second, he looked at me as though he didn't know whether to trust me.
Then he said, “Show me.”
We hurried through the mansion's deserted corridors.
The orchestra had stopped playing.
The wealthy guests were gathering outside beneath the garden lights.
Some were filming the smoke rising above the roof.
Others were still laughing about Natalia's ruined surprise.
Nobody understood that Julian's seventy-nine-year-old mother might be dying upstairs.
When we reached the east wing, the smell changed.
The theatrical smoke downstairs had smelled faintly sweet.
This was different.
Burning wood.
Melted plastic.
Something dangerously real.
Julian pressed his radio.
“Dunn, where's Mercer?”
Elias Dunn, the deputy security chief, answered immediately.
“We can't locate him, sir.”
“Find him.”
Then Julian pushed open the linen storage door.
The service staircase was narrow.
Smoke curled along the ceiling.
I covered my mouth with my sleeve.
“Third landing,” I whispered.
Julian reached for my arm.
“If you feel dizzy, you turn around. Understood?”
I nodded.
But I kept climbing.
At the third landing, we found the door.
It was locked.
From the outside.
And someone had placed a heavy brass cabinet against it.
Julian stared.
“This wasn't an accident.”
Together, we pushed the cabinet aside.
Julian tried the handle.
Nothing.
He struck the door with his shoulder.
Once.
Twice.
The old wooden frame cracked.
On the third attempt, the lock gave way.
“Mother!”
His voice echoed through the room.
A weak cough answered.
Helen Ashford was sitting beside a bookcase, wrapped in a blue wool coat.
Her silver hair had fallen loose around her face.
She was holding her medical alert bracelet against her chest.
Her breathing sounded terrible.
“Julian?”
He dropped to his knees.
“I'm here, Mama.”
For the first time that evening, I saw genuine fear on the face of the man everyone in Atlanta feared.
Helen grabbed his sleeve.
“He said you sent him.”
“Who?”
She struggled for breath.
“Mercer.”
Julian froze.
“He told me there was an emergency upstairs,” Helen whispered. “Said you needed me to identify some old records.”
“Why didn't you call me?”
“He took my telephone.”
I knelt beside her.
“Mrs. Ashford, we need to get you outside.”
She looked at me.
Recognition flashed across her exhausted face.
“Brooke.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Her fingers closed around my wrist.
“You weren't supposed to be here tonight.”
I frowned.
“Ma'am?”
But she started coughing again.
Julian lifted his mother carefully.
She could stand for short periods, but the smoke had weakened her badly.
We moved toward the stairs.
Halfway down, Helen whispered something against Julian's shoulder.
He stopped.
“What did you say?”
“The fire wasn't supposed to start yet.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Julian looked at her.
“How would you know that?”
Helen squeezed her eyes shut.
“Mercer was looking for something. He said if I wouldn't tell him where it was, he would let the smoke find it first.”
“What was he looking for?”
She didn't answer.
By the time we reached the ground floor, the firefighters had entered the east wing.
A paramedic met us in the courtyard.
Helen was placed on a stretcher and given oxygen.
Julian stayed beside her.
I stood a few feet away, trembling.
My uniform smelled of smoke.
My wrist still burned where Natalia had slapped it.
And somewhere inside that mansion, a man Julian had trusted for eleven years had apparently tried to trap his mother above a fire.
Dunn approached us carrying a damaged security radio.
“We found this beside the service elevator, boss. It's Mercer's.”
Julian took it.
“Where is he?”
“Gone. His vehicle left through the maintenance gate before the first firefighters arrived.”
Julian's expression hardened.
“Alert the police. Give them his photograph and the vehicle information.”
Dunn hesitated.
“There's something else.”
Julian looked up.
“Say it.”
“Before Mercer left, he reassigned two security officers.”
“To where?”
Dunn glanced at me.
“Cottage Three.”
My stomach tightened.
Cottage Three was the small staff house where I lived.
Where my six-year-old son, Eli, was spending the evening with our neighbor, Mrs. Keene.
Julian noticed my expression.
“Brooke?”
I could barely speak.
“My son is there.”
Helen suddenly pulled away her oxygen mask.
“No!”
The paramedic tried to calm her.
But she grabbed Julian's hand.
“Don't let Mercer near that little boy.”
Julian leaned closer.
“Mother, what does Brooke's son have to do with any of this?”
Helen's eyes filled with tears.
“Mercer showed me his photograph. He said the boy might have something his father left behind.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“My husband has been dead for eighteen months.”
Helen looked directly at me.
“I know, sweetheart.”
Then she said something that made the entire courtyard seem to disappear.
“That's why Mercer has been searching your house.”
Julian grabbed his radio.
“Dunn, cancel those orders. Nobody enters Cottage Three.”
Static crackled.
Then a security officer answered.
“Sir, the team has already entered the cottage.”
I screamed one word.
May you like
“ELI!”
And Julian was already running toward his car.
