Chapter 5 - The Antique Watch
The silence in the basement was absolute, broken only by the sound of rain hammering against the glass block window.
Richard Mercer slowly descended the wooden stairs. The gun in his hand didn’t waver. He looked completely out of place—a wealthy, aristocratic man in a tailored tuxedo, holding a weapon in a dirty, damp cellar.
Caroline let out a strangled, horrified gasp. “Dad? What are you doing? Put that down!”
Richard ignored his daughter. His eyes locked onto Charles Whitmore.
“I told Margaret to burn that chest fifteen years ago,” Richard sighed, sounding more annoyed than murderous. “But my wife has always been sentimental. A fatal flaw.”
“You,” Charles breathed, his voice vibrating with a primal, fatherly rage. “You helped her steal my grandson.”
“I didn't help her, Charles,” Richard said with a cold, aristocratic sneer. “I orchestrated it. Margaret was too weak to do what needed to be done. Evelyn was a naive little fool ready to throw away a billion-dollar legacy for a grease monkey’s bastard. I couldn't let her tarnish the circle we move in.”
“It wasn't your family!” Ethan yelled, stepping protectively in front of his grandfather.
“We were merging families!” Richard snapped back. “Caroline was already promised to you, Ethan. If Evelyn ran off and caused a scandal, the stock prices would have plummeted. The board would have ousted Charles. The Mercer family wealth was tied to Whitmore Industries. I protected my investment.”
I stood frozen against the wall, my hand gripping the heavy metal flashlight so hard my knuckles were white. My mind was racing. Evelyn didn’t jump. She was silenced.
“You killed her,” Charles said, the reality finally settling over him, heavy and suffocating.
Richard paused on the bottom step. He smiled, a thin, cruel line.
“She caught us sneaking the baby out through the east corridor,” Richard explained casually, as if discussing a business deal. “She fought like a wildcat. She scratched my face. She bit me. And then she realized Margaret was holding the child.”
Margaret sobbed into her hands, unable to look at Charles.
“Evelyn slapped Margaret,” Richard continued. “And the ring… that beautiful emerald ring you gave her… it caught Margaret’s cheek. It drew blood.”
My breath hitched. The crack in the emerald. The dark brown stain on the gold band. It wasn't Evelyn's blood. It was Margaret’s.
“I grabbed Evelyn,” Richard said, his eyes darkening. “I dragged her into the sitting room. She hit her head on the marble fireplace. It was an accident. But she was dead. So, I carried her body down to the river, and I let the current handle the rest.”
Charles let out an agonizing, guttural cry and lunged toward Richard.
BANG.
The gunshot deafened us in the small concrete room.
Charles stopped, stumbling backward as a bullet struck the wooden support beam just inches from his head. Splinters rained down on his shoulders.
“Don't be stupid, Charles,” Richard warned, pointing the gun directly at the old man’s chest. “You’re an old man. Don't make me end the Whitmore line tonight.”
“Dad, stop it!” Caroline screamed, rushing forward and grabbing her father’s arm. “You’re crazy! You can’t shoot Ethan’s grandfather!”
Richard violently shoved his own daughter away. Caroline fell hard onto the dirt floor, scraping her knees.
“Caroline, grow up,” Richard sneered. “This was all for you. To secure your place as the queen of the Whitmore empire. And look what you did. You kept that stupid music box. You let a maid ruin everything.”
Richard turned his cold gaze to me.
I stopped breathing. The barrel of the gun shifted, pointing directly at my chest.
“Give me the ring, Rosa,” Richard ordered.
I swallowed the lump of terror in my throat. I reached into my apron pocket, my fingers brushing against the cold gold band.
“Give it to him, Rosa,” Charles whispered, his voice broken. “It’s not worth your life.”
I pulled the ring out. The emerald caught the beam of the flashlight.
As I held it out, I noticed something else on Richard’s wrist. As he reached for the ring, his tuxedo sleeve pulled back.
He was wearing an antique, gold pocket watch on a thick chain wrapped around his wrist.
I recognized that watch. I polished the antiques in the Whitmore estate every Tuesday. That specific watch had been reported stolen from Charles’s private study fifteen years ago—the very same week Evelyn died.
Richard hadn't just murdered Evelyn. He had looted the estate on his way out.
I looked at the heavy Maglite flashlight in my left hand. I looked at the gun in Richard’s right hand.
I wasn't just a maid. My mother had raised a fighter in the Bronx.
I held the ring out. Richard stepped closer, his eyes greedy, his focus entirely on the emerald.
“Good girl,” Richard mocked.
May you like
As his fingers brushed the ring, I didn't drop it into his hand.
Instead, I gripped the heavy, metal flashlight like a baseball bat, and I swung it with every ounce of strength I possessed.
