Chapter 6 - BLOOD IN THE FOYER
Lydia’s blood ran cold.
The scream had come from the second floor—near Eleanor Sterling’s quarters.
"Stay here," Lydia whispered, dropping Roland's hand and turning toward the door.
"Lydia, wait—" Roland started, but she was already gone, pulling the door open and sprinting down the dimly lit corridor.
The mansion was completely different at night. Without sunlight, the grand hallways felt like a labyrinth of shadows and traps. As Lydia reached the second-floor landing, the smell of wood smoke and something metallic—sharp and coppery—hit her nostrils.
She rounded the corner toward Eleanor’s suite.
The heavy mahogany door to the old woman’s room was blown off its hinges, splintered down the center. Inside, the room was in absolute ruins. Antiques were overturned, porcelain teacups smashed across the floor, and the heavy velvet curtains were torn down.
In the center of the room, Madame Eleanor Sterling lay crumpled on the Persian rug.
Her silver hair was disheveled, a dark crimson stain blooming across the front of her nightgown. Standing over her was Dale Hutchins, a heavy iron fireplace poker gripped in his right hand, his face twisted into a vicious, ugly grin.
Near the doorway, Celeste stood watching, her arms crossed over her silk gown, her expression as cold and indifferent as a statue.
"Ah," Celeste murmured, turning her head as Lydia froze in the doorway. "Look who decided to join us. The curious little maid."
Lydia’s legs felt like lead. She stared at Eleanor’s motionless body, her medical training screaming at her that the old woman had no pulse, that the heavy blow to her chest had shattered her ribs and stopped her heart.
"You killed her," Lydia whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of horror and white-hot rage.
"She was old, Lydia," Celeste said smoothly, stepping over a broken vase as if she were walking through a garden. "She knew too much about family business. She tried to warn Roland, she tried to protect him from his own interests. In a family like ours, people who talk too much tend to have unfortunate accidents."
Dale laughed, stepping forward, swinging the iron poker lazily in his hand. "And you, sweetie? You've been poking around where you don't belong too. Down in the study. Up in the east wing. You really should have taken Greta's advice and stayed in the kitchen."
Lydia backed away slowly toward the hallway, her eyes darting toward the stairs. She needed to get back to Roland. She needed to warn him before Dale and Celeste finished what they started downstairs.
"Don't let her move," Celeste commanded coldly.
Dale lunged forward with terrifying speed, his heavy hand grabbing Lydia by the shoulder and slamming her hard against the hallway wall. The breath rushed out of her lungs in a sharp gasp.
"Going somewhere, little nurse?" Dale sneered, pressing the cold steel barrel of a concealed pistol against her temple.
At that exact moment, a sound echoed from the dark hallway behind them—a sound that made even Dale Hutchins freeze in his tracks.
The slow, heavy thud of a heavy cane striking the hardwood floor. Tap. Tap. Tap.
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Down the dark corridor of the east wing, emerging from the shadows like an avenging ghost, came Roland Sterling.
He wasn't wearing his dark glasses. His blind eyes were wide, staring straight ahead into the darkness, and in his right hand, he held a heavy, customized nickel-plated M1911 pistol—held with the absolute, terrifying precision of a man who didn't need to see his target to blow their head off.
