Chapter 2 - THE WHISPER IN THE WEST WING
Clara didn't leave.
She couldn't. Leaving meant returning to a damp, single-room apartment with no leverage against Derek. Leaving meant letting her daughter be dragged away by a man who only wanted Lily to avoid paying child support.
Instead of packing, Clara locked herself in the West Wing guest suite that Victor’s housekeeper, Mrs. Whitaker, had hastily prepared for her. The room was immense, furnished with antique mahogany and heavy velvet drapes, but Clara felt like a prisoner in a gold-plated cage.
It was 1:15 a.m. The rain lashed furiously against the tall glass windows.
Clara sat on the edge of the bed, stitching a tear in her blazer, her ears tuned to every creak of the old estate. Her mind kept rewiring the image of Theo’s bloody hands and the terrifyingly dark room.
If Eleanor Hale was dead, who—or what—cut that boy?
A soft, methodical knock sounded at her door.
Clara froze. She reached for the heavy iron candle snuffer on her nightstand, clutching it tightly as she tiptoed toward the door.
"Who is it?" she called out softly.
"It’s Mrs. Whitaker," a raspy whisper came from the other side. "Open up, child. Before he sees me."
Clara unlatched the heavy brass lock and pulled the door open. The housekeeper stood in the dim corridor, clutching a silver tray with a steaming mug of tea. Her eyes were bloodshot, darting nervously over Clara’s shoulder toward the dark hallway.
"Drink this. You look like a ghost," Mrs. Whitaker said, slipping into the room and closing the door softly.
"I don't want tea, Mrs. Whitaker," Clara said bluntly, holding her ground. "I want to know what kind of house I just stepped into. Who cut Theo? Why did the boys say they saw their mother?"
Mrs. Whitaker set the tray down on a side table with a faint clatter. She pulled her wool shawl tighter around her frail shoulders. "You think you’re the first brave girl to walk through those doors, Clara? You think those four boys are just spoiled brats? They’re terrified."
"Terrified of what? Their father?"
"Of the truth," Mrs. Whitaker whispered, leaning in closer. "Eleanor Hale didn't die of cancer three years ago. That was the story Victor sold to the press to protect his empire."
Clara’s throat tightened. "What actually happened to her?"
"She disappeared," Mrs. Whitaker said, her voice dropping to a trembling murmur. "Right off the deck of their private yacht in Lake Michigan. No body was ever recovered. But six months ago, strange things started happening in this house. Security cameras wiping themselves. Food disappearing from the cold storage. Whispers in the ventilation shafts."
"You think she’s alive? Hiding in the house?"
"I think Victor Hale is keeping a monster locked in the East Wing," Mrs. Whitaker said grimly. "And I think those four boys know it. That’s why they act like demons, Clara. They’re trying to burn this house down so they don't have to live in its shadow anymore."
Suddenly, the lights in the guest suite flickered rapidly and died, plunging the room into absolute darkness.
Mrs. Whitaker gasped in horror.
Outside in the hallway, a slow, metallic scraping sound began. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. Like iron nails dragging along the mahogany wainscoting.
"He knows I'm in here," Mrs. Whitaker whimpered, her hands shaking so violently she knocked over the tea mug, sending hot liquid spilling across the wooden floor.
"Stay here," Clara whispered, her instincts taking over.
She picked up the iron candle snuffer and stepped toward the door. She cracked it open an inch.
The corridor was illuminated only by the frantic flashes of lightning outside. Down the long hallway, walking slowly, deliberately toward her room, was a tall figure in a dark rain slicker. Blood was dripping from the hem of the coat, leaving a crimson trail on the Persian rugs.
The figure stopped right outside Clara's door.
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Through the crack, Clara saw a hand reach up toward the door handle. The fingers were long, covered in dirt and wet mud... and on the ring finger was a massive, unmistakable diamond ring—the exact same ring featured in the oil paintings of Eleanor Hale downstairs.
The doorknob began to turn.
