Chapter 8 - The Music Box
Caroline collided with me, knocking the heavy flashlight from my grip. It clattered to the dirt floor, the beam spinning wildly across the concrete walls before settling in a corner, casting long, distorted shadows.
We hit the ground hard.
Caroline’s hands wrapped around my throat. Her velvet-red dress was torn, her perfectly styled hair a tangled mess. She wasn't a sophisticated socialite anymore; she was a desperate, cornered animal.
“You were supposed to burn it!” she screamed, her nails digging into my skin. “You’re nobody! You’re just the help!”
I couldn't breathe. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. But I remembered the weight of Evelyn’s ring in my pocket. I remembered the baby rattle. I remembered Charles weeping on the crate.
I refused to die in a dirty basement at the hands of a spoiled brat.
I brought my knee up as hard as I could, catching Caroline in the stomach.
She gasped, her grip loosening just enough. I twisted my hips, throwing my weight to the side, and rolled her off me.
Before Caroline could recover, Ethan was there.
He grabbed Caroline by the shoulders and hauled her to her feet, shoving her firmly against the concrete wall. He didn't hit her, but he held her there with a grip made of iron.
“Don't you ever touch her again,” Ethan snarled, his face inches from Caroline’s.
Caroline sobbed, finally going limp against the wall. “Ethan, please... we can still fix this. We can pay the attorney to stay quiet. We can leave tonight!”
Ethan stared at her, utterly repulsed. “You are exactly like your father. Rot in hell, Caroline.”
Sirens began to wail in the distance, cutting through the sound of the falling rain. The red and blue lights soon reflected off the ground-level basement windows.
Arthur Vance walked over to the unconscious body of Richard Mercer. He looked down at the man who had blackmailed him for ten years, his expression resolute.
“I’ll tell the police everything, Charles,” Arthur said, turning back to us. “I know I will face consequences for withholding evidence. I will probably lose my license. But Julian... Julian needs to know who he really is.”
Charles slowly stood up from the crate. He looked ten years older than he had at the start of the dinner, but there was a new, fierce light in his eyes.
“You protected my grandson, Arthur,” Charles said quietly. “You kept him safe from the Mercers. I will ensure you have the best defense team in the country. Beatrice will not be charged. Julian will remain with the mother who raised him... but he will finally know his family.”
The heavy wooden door at the top of the basement stairs burst open.
Four police officers rushed down, flashlights cutting through the gloom, weapons drawn.
“Nobody move!” the lead officer shouted.
Ethan raised his hands slowly. “The man on the floor is Richard Mercer. He is unconscious. He just confessed to the murder of Evelyn Whitmore.”
The officers quickly moved in, securing Richard and pulling a weeping Margaret to her feet. Another officer handcuffed Caroline, reading her her rights as she sobbed uncontrollably, screaming Ethan’s name. He turned his back to her.
As the police processed the chaotic scene, Charles walked over to me.
I was leaning against the wall, rubbing my bruised throat, trying to calm my racing heart.
“Rosa,” Charles said softly.
He held out his hand.
I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out the bloodstained emerald ring. I placed it gently into his palm.
“Thank you,” Charles whispered, closing his fingers around the jewel. “You did not let them erase her.”
He looked around the damp, miserable basement. Then, he looked at Evelyn’s blue coat resting on the cedar chest.
“Let’s go home,” Charles said.
An hour later, the police had cleared the Mercer estate. Charles, Ethan, and I returned to the Whitmore mansion. The Thanksgiving dinner guests had all been sent home, bewildered and whispering.
The grand dining room was empty. The shattered glass from Caroline’s wineglass had been swept up by the other staff.
I stood near the door, feeling entirely out of place. My uniform was dirty, my hair was a mess, and my throat was bruised. I assumed I would be dismissed to my quarters, my job likely terminated due to the chaos.
But Charles sat down at the head of the long table. He placed the emerald ring in the center of the polished wood. Next to it, he placed the silver baby rattle.
Then, he looked at me.
“Rosa. Sit down,” Charles commanded softly.
I hesitated. “Sir, I’m staff. I shouldn't—”
“You are not staff tonight,” Ethan interrupted, pulling out a chair near the head of the table. “You are the bravest person in this house. Please. Sit.”
I walked over and sat down in the plush, velvet chair. It was the chair Caroline had been sitting in just a few hours ago.
Charles reached over to the serving cart. The antique, wooden music box with the hand-carved roses still sat there.
He pulled it toward him. He gently traced the roses with his thumb.
“Evelyn loved this box,” Charles said, a soft, sad smile touching his lips. “I bought it for her in Vienna when she was ten. It played her favorite lullaby.”
He looked at me.
“You found the hidden compartment underneath,” Charles said. “But did you know there was a second one?”
I blinked in surprise. “No, sir.”
Charles pressed his finger against the carved rose in the very center of the lid. He pushed hard, then slid the wood to the left.
A small, thin drawer popped out from the side.
Inside was a single, folded piece of paper.
Charles carefully unfolded it. It was a letter, written in Evelyn’s elegant handwriting. He read it silently, his eyes watering.
Then, he handed it to me.
I looked at the letter.
If anyone finds this, please know that I loved Thomas. And I love my son. I hid the ring in the bottom compartment because I knew Margaret wanted it. She wants everything we have. But the ring belongs to my boy. Give it to him when he is old enough to understand that his mother didn't leave him by choice.
I wiped a tear from my eye and handed the letter back to Charles.
Evelyn had known Margaret was dangerous. She had hidden the ring as a failsafe, a breadcrumb of truth in case the worst happened.
And fifteen years later, a maid had found it.
Charles carefully wound the tiny silver key on the side of the music box.
May you like
He let it go.
The haunting, beautiful melody filled the quiet dining room once again. But this time, it didn't sound like a ghost story. It sounded like a mother’s lullaby.
