Chapter 3 - THE GHOST IN THE SYSTEMThe kitchen was freezing. The industrial stainless-steel counters gleamed under harsh fluorescent strips, contrasting sharply with the opulent warmth of the rest of the estate. I set Rosie down on a wooden stool and handed her a small carton of apple juice from the refrigerator.
“Stay right here, sweetie. Marco will be back in a minute to watch you,” I said, stepping toward the heavy rear exit that led to the estate’s waste management bay.
Before my hand could touch the push-bar, the overhead fluorescent lights flickered violently once, twice, and then plunged the entire service wing into absolute, suffocating darkness.
Click.
The heavy steel fire door slammed shut behind me with a sickening thud, automatically engaging the emergency electronic locks.
“Marco!” I shouted, drawing my hand back.
Silence. The wind howled against the reinforced glass of the exterior windows, drowning out everything except the frantic beating of my own heart. In the pitch black, a soft, metallic scrape echoed from the corner near the walk-in freezer.
“Who’s there?” I demanded, shifting my weight into a defensive stance. I had spent years learning Krav Maga in the corporate security complexes of Manhattan; I wasn’t an easy target. But Greystone Manor was an old fortress, and old fortresses had secrets.
A slow, chilling chuckle drifted through the dark.
“You really thought you were the smartest man in the room, didn’t you, Damian?”
The voice wasn’t Vivienne’s. It belonged to a man. Smooth, cultured, dripping with an aristocratic venom that made my skin crawl.
“Who is it?” I barked, stepping cautiously toward the sound. “Show yourself!”
A small lighter flickered to life in the far corner, illuminating a pale, handsome face surrounded by cigarette smoke. It was Julian Vance—my own cousin, the man I had appointed as chief financial officer of Vance Global just three years ago. He was leaning against the stainless-steel prep table, holding a small silver lighter beneath his chin like a campfire ghost story.
“Julian?” I narrowed my eyes. “What the hell are you doing down here?”
“Cleaning up your mess, cousin,” Julian smiled, blowing a thin ring of smoke into the dark air. “Vivienne was always too emotional. Too sloppy. Stealing a dead maid’s ring because of some sentimental attachment to a piece of junk? Amateurnight bullshit. But you... you had to go and play detective.”
“You knew,” I said, the pieces of the puzzle violently snapping together in my mind. “Sofia didn't die of a stroke. You and Vivienne poisoned her. Why? What did she find?”
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Julian’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold, dead-eyed glare. He flicked the lighter shut, plunging us back into darkness just as a heavy metal thud echoed from the hallway outside.
“She found the offshore accounts, Damian,” Julian’s voice whispered right beside my ear, impossibly close. “She was going to tell you everything. And now... you’re going to join her.”
