Chapter 3 - The Third-Floor ArchiveThe private elevator to the third-floor staff wing smelled of old cedar and damp wool.
When my grandfather built the estate in 1954, he designed the top floor as a barracks for the permanent domestic crew—men and women who lived in the house for decades, married in the chapel down the road, and died with gold pocket watches bearing the Vance crest. By the time I inherited the place, most of the rooms were empty, converted into storage for old ledgers, winter rugs, and portrait frames that nobody wanted to look at.
Sofia Carter had lived in room 312.
It was at the very end of the north corridor, past the linen chutes and the service stairs.
When I swiped my master key card, the lock clicked with a dry, mechanical finality.
The room was dark. Marco was right behind me with a tactical flashlight, its beam cutting through the dust motes that hung suspended in the stagnant air.
"She lived here for three years," I murmured, sweeping my gaze across the small iron-framed bed, the narrow oak dresser, and the single wooden chair by the window.
It didn't look like a room belonging to someone who had stolen from the house. There were no hidden compartments behind the wallpaper, no cash boxes, no expensive jewelry boxes. There was only a stack of library books on maritime history, a framed photograph of her brother’s family, and a small wooden sewing kit with a cracked lid.
"Boss," Marco said, kneeling by the baseboard near the wardrobe.
"What?"
"Look at the carpet."
I walked over and crouched beside him.
The heavy gray wool carpet had been shampooed recently—too recently. The fibers were stiff, matted down in a rough square that didn't match the surrounding nap.
"They brought a steam cleaner up here," Marco said, running a gloved finger across the dry patch. "Trying to get rid of something deep in the backing."
"Blood?"
"Or worse," Marco said, standing up and pulling a small multi-tool from his belt. He wedged the flat blade beneath the baseboard near the wardrobe and gave it a sharp twist.
The wood cracked with a dry splintering sound.
Marco reached deep into the cavity beneath the floorboards and pulled out a small, heavy object wrapped in a linen dish towel.
He laid it on the narrow bed and unwrapped it.
It was a brass letter opener shaped like an antique dagger—heavy, solid, and stained dark brown along the hilt where it met the guard.
And right on the flat of the brass blade, near the handle, was a smear of dried crimson and a single blonde hair.
Not Sofia’s hair. Sofia’s hair was black as coal.
This hair was long, fine, and the exact shade of the California lilies downstairs.
"Vivienne didn't just take the ring," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "She forgot to check where Sofia kept the things that didn't belong to her."
"What’s that, boss?" Marco asked, pointing to a small, folded piece of paper stuck inside the handle of the dagger.
I pulled it out with two fingers. It was a note, written on expensive, heavy-weight stationery with a gold watermark at the top—The Carlyle, New York.
The handwriting was neat, slanted, and unmistakably female.
May you like
“If you mention the transaction with the import manifests to Damian, the next stroke won’t be simulated. The harbor police are on our payroll, Sofia. You are entirely alone.”
There was no signature. But at the bottom, stamped in purple wax, was the personal seal of Vivienne’s father, Senator Arthur Sterling.
