Chapter 4 - THE LOCKED ROOM ON THE THIRD FLOORBack at Mercer House, Claire Dawson was trying hard to keep her hands from shaking as she smoothed the hospital corners of a silk duvet in the west wing.
Her cheek still bore a faint, yellowish bruise from Vanessa’s slap, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the whirlwind of anxiety spinning inside her chest. Julian had insisted that she and Emma stay in the mansion’s primary guest quarters rather than commute back and forth from South Chicago—at least until the immediate threat from the Whitmore family had passed.
Emma was currently sitting cross-legged on the Persian rug, coloring in a massive sketchbook provided by a personal shopper who had arrived that morning with dozens of designer dresses and toys—all of which Claire had politely, firmly tried to refuse, only to be overruled by Julian himself.
"Mommy," Emma looked up, holding out a crayon drawing. "Look. It’s the big house. And that’s the tall man with the sad eyes."
Claire knelt beside her daughter, looking at the crude crayon drawing. It depicted the limestone mansion, and beside it, a tall stick figure with a massive heart painted in bright, vibrant red right over its chest.
"He’s not sad anymore, sweetie," Claire whispered, kissing the top of Emma’s dark curls. "He’s just... very busy."
Just then, a soft knock echoed at the open door.
Margaret Bell stood in the doorway. The head housekeeper’s posture was stiffer than usual, her hands clasped tightly in front of her gray apron.
"Mrs. Dawson," Margaret said, her voice unusually hesitant. "Mr. Mercer requests your presence in the study. Specifically... he wants you to understand something about this house before nightfall."
Claire’s heart skipped a beat. "Is something wrong?"
"No," Margaret replied, looking away down the long, dim corridor. "He simply wishes to show you why he lives the way he does. Follow me."
They walked past the grand staircase, past the portrait gallery of long-dead shipping barons, all the way to the end of the third-floor hallway—straight to the heavy mahogany double doors that Margaret had strictly forbidden Claire from approaching on her very first day.
The locked room.
Margaret pulled a heavy brass key from her pocket, slid it into the ornate keylock, and turned it with a heavy clack.
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"Go on," Margaret whispered. "He’s waiting inside."
Claire swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and pushed the heavy doors open.
