Chapter 3 - THE GHOSTS OF THE EAST WINGThe service elevator descended with a metallic screech, plunging them into the belly of the Durham estate. Built in the late nineteenth century, the mansion was a monument to old money and dark secrets. As the elevator jolted to a halt, the smell of damp stone, dust, and old paper filled the cramped space.
Manuel kept one hand on Rosalie’s arm, guiding her through the gloom as they stepped out into a cavernous stone corridor lit only by emergency flickering bulbs.
“Quiet,” Manuel warned, hearing the faint murmur of footsteps echoing from the upper levels. Emmett’s men had already cleared the suite and realized they had escaped. Security alarms would be triggered any second.
Rosalie led the way with uncanny precision, navigating the labyrinthine corridors of the estate's foundations. They bypassed the modern wine cellars and pushed past a heavy iron gate labeled Authorized Personnel Only.
Behind the gate lay a forgotten wing of the estate—the original foundation walls built by the Durham patriarch. Cobwebs hung like tattered shrouds from the vaulted ceilings.
“Here,” Rosalie stopped before a massive iron-reinforced vault door set directly into the natural bedrock. Unlike modern digital locks, this door featured a heavy mechanical dial and a solitary, dust-covered keyhole matching the precise dimensions of the silver key burning a hole in Manuel’s pocket.
Manuel stepped forward, his hands steady despite the distant sound of security dogs barking somewhere above. He slid the silver key into the ancient lock. It resisted for a fraction of a second, rusted by years of disuse, before he applied steady pressure.
Clack.
The heavy internal mechanism turned with a satisfying, deep-throated echo. Manuel gripped the large iron wheel, planted his boots against the stone floor, and threw his weight into it. The vault door groaned open, spilling a plume of stale, century-old air into the corridor.
Inside, the room was surprisingly dry. Rows of filing cabinets, wooden crates, and ledgers lined the stone walls. In the center of the room sat a massive oak desk lit by an overhead lamp wired into a separate, independent generator.
“My mother didn’t just keep notes,” Rosalie whispered, stepping inside and brushing her fingers over a stack of leather-bound journals. “She documented everything.”
Manuel walked over to the desk and opened the top ledger. The pages were filled with meticulous, sharp handwriting—Lorelei Durham’s handwriting. As his eyes scanned the lines, the breath caught in his throat.
May you like
It wasn't just a financial ledger. It was a complete blueprint of corporate sabotage, embezzlement, and murder.
And right at the center of the conspiracy, bleeding across every page like a stain, was a name Manuel knew better than his own: Nelson Industries.
