Chapter 4 - CAUGHT IN THE SPIDER'S WEBClara reacted on pure adrenaline. She threw herself backward into the shadows of an alcove just as the nursery door swung wide open.
Mrs. Hargrove’s sharp eyes swept the hallway. For a tense, agonizing moment, the house manager stood motionless, listening to the dead silence of the corridor. Her silver pearl brooch gleamed under the dim wall sconces like a cold eye watching the dark.
"Who's there?" Mrs. Hargrove called out, her voice dropping into a chilling hiss.
When no answer came, she stepped out into the hall, her footsteps clicking sharply against the polished wood. She walked slowly toward the alcove where Clara was hiding.
Clara pressed herself so hard against the wall she felt the rough texture of the wallpaper bite into her shoulder blades. She held her breath, counting her heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Her hand brushed against a heavy decorative iron wall sconce next to her. If Mrs. Hargrove rounded the corner, Clara was ready to swing it.
Just as Mrs. Hargrove reached the edge of the alcove, a sharp, piercing chime echoed from the main foyer downstairs.
Ding-dong.
A visitor at the front gates at 2:15 in the morning?
Mrs. Hargrove stopped. A frown of deep annoyance knitted her brow. She glanced down at the sleek electronic device in her hand, slipped it swiftly into her pocket, and muttered under her breath, "Incompetent fools," before turning sharply on her heel and marching toward the grand staircase.
Clara waited until the sound of Mrs. Hargrove’s footsteps faded away before letting out a shaky, ragged breath. She slid down the wall, her legs trembling.
What was that device? What had Mrs. Hargrove meant by “accidents happen to little boys who talk too much”?
And most importantly... what had Noah seen in the garage on the night his mother died?
Clara pushed herself up and slipped quietly into the nursery.
Noah was still curled into a tight ball, shivering violently under the heavy duvet. The room smelled of lavender and cold fear. Clara approached the bed with extreme caution, moving as slowly as a shadow.
"Noah," she whispered, her voice soft and trembling. "Noah, it's Clara."
The boy didn't move. He kept his face buried deep in his pillow.
"I know you're scared," Clara said, kneeling beside the bed, wincing as her bruised ribs protested the movement. She reached out, keeping her hands completely open and empty, placing them flat on the mattress a safe distance from his pillow. "I saw her, Noah. I saw the woman with the pearls in your room. And I heard what she said."
At the mention of the pearls, the rigid tension in Noah’s small body shifted.
Slowly, agonizingly, the little boy turned his head. His large, dark, tear-stained eyes locked onto Clara’s face. For the first time since she had walked into the mansion, there was no anger in his look—only a desperate, shattering plea for rescue.
Noah’s lips parted. His throat worked as if he were trying to swallow glass.
He raised one tiny, trembling hand, pointing a shaky finger not at Mrs. Hargrove, not at the door, but straight down—toward the floorboards beneath the bed, toward the hidden basement parking garage where the police had supposedly investigated the fatal car crash two years ago.
May you like
And then, Noah whispered his very first word in two years. A single, chilling syllable that made Clara’s blood freeze in her veins:
"Under..."
