Chapter 3 - The Ghost’s Return
Three days later, I checked myself out of St. Jude’s against medical advice.
I didn't go back to the hospital suite or a hotel. I went to the old carriage house at the edge of the Sterling estate—a forgotten brick structure choked with ivy that Eleanor had long since abandoned because it didn't fit her aesthetic. From the second-story window, hidden behind dusty lace curtains, I had a clear, unobstructed view of the main manor.
Julian was pacing the length of the glass conservatory, his phone glued to his ear. He looked hollowed out—pale, unshaven, and drowning in the oversized suits of a man whose life was unraveling.
Downstairs, the heavy oak door creaked open. Heavy footsteps echoed on the brick floor.
"You look like a corpse wrapped in linen," a deep, gravelly voice muttered.
Marcus Thorne stepped out of the shadows near the old stone fireplace. Marcus had been the chief of security for the Sterling family for twenty years before Eleanor tried to frame him for embezzlement three years ago to cover up her husband’s financial embezzlement. I had saved Marcus’s pension and his freedom quietly, anonymously.
Now, he was my debt collector.
"How is the feed?" I asked, adjusting the black cashmere turtleneck hiding the ugly bruises on my neck.
Marcus tossed a heavy black laptop onto the scarred oak table and tapped the trackpad. The screen flickered to life, displaying a multi-angle split feed of the main manor's interior.
"Eleanor is holding a press conference in the grand foyer at noon," Marcus said, his eyes hard. "She invited every major news outlet in the city. She's going to play the victim card, shed a few expensive crocodile tears, and announce a generous charitable foundation in memory of her 'unborn grandchild.' She thinks she has total control."
"She forgot one fundamental rule of high-stakes corporate warfare," I whispered, leaning over the screen. "Never trust an IT contractor whose student loans haven't been fully paid off."
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Marcus smirked. "Our boy at the local news affiliate just confirmed. They received an anonymous tip package containing the unedited, crystal-clear 4K footage of the staircase incident. Audio included. Every whispered word. Every calculated hesitation."
"Good," I straightened up, walking toward the window to watch the morning mist lift off the manicured lawns. "Let her build her stage as high as she wants. The higher they climb, the harder the marble hits."
