I looked down at Helen. She was trembling, holding a phone that represented the total collapse of her world, while my own world sat atop a hill, shielded by iron gates and manicured lawns. For eight years, I had walked past this woman every morning. I knew the brand of coffee she prepared for me, the exact temperature I preferred my study to be, and the soft, unobtrusive sound of her footsteps as she moved through the 14-bedroom mansion. Yet, I had known nothing about the slow starvation of her livelihood right under my roof.

The grandfather clock in the master suite chimed three times.

I snapped my eyes open. My head pounded as if someone were driving a spike through my temples. My vision swam with static, but the cold adrenaline pumping through my heart slowly began to purge the sedative from my blood.

I tried to move my hands. My wrists were zip-tied to the solid brass footboard of my heavy master bed.

The room was dimly lit, shadows stretching across the high ceilings. Outside, thunder rumbled, sending flashes of light through the balcony windows.

I forced myself to breathe slowly, fighting the nausea. Think, Andrew. Think.

They had underestimated one thing: I had built this house fifteen years ago. Every architectural detail, every secret passage, every security override was designed under my direct instructions.

I dragged my body upward, pulling against the heavy brass frame. The plastic zip-tie cut deep into my wrists, but I ignored the sharp pain. I twisted my wrists, aligning the plastic locking mechanism against the hard edge of the decorative brass filigree. With a violent, desperate jerk, I slammed my arms down.

SNAP.

The zip-tie snapped under the sheer force and sharp edge. Blood dripped from my wrists, but I was free.

I crept toward the balcony door. The main door of the bedroom was locked from the outside, and I could hear the faint sound of a guard coughing in the hallway.

I didn't use the hall. I approached the master closet, pushed past the rows of tailored suits, and pressed my hand against a hidden panel behind the suit racks. A magnetic latch clicked, revealing the narrow maintenance crawlspace that ran parallel to the mansion's chimney system.

I squeezed into the darkness, navigating the narrow wooden ladders by memory.

Down, down, down. Past the second floor, past the ground floor, straight into the subterranean mechanical level.

When I pushed open the lower access panel, the smell of damp stone and old iron filled my nose. I stepped into the dark basement hallway.

Suddenly, a small hand reached out from behind a water heater and pulled me into the shadows.

"Shh!" a voice whispered.

I looked down.

It was Grace. Her clothes were covered in soot and gray dust, her face smudged, but her eyes were burning bright in the gloom. In her hands, she held two thick, leather-bound green ledgers.

"Grace!" I whispered, crouching down. "Are you okay? Where is your mother?"

"They locked Mom in the old wine vault," Grace whispered rapidly. "I found the green books in the air duct like I said! Look at the pages, Mr. Caldwell! It's not just paychecks!"