Chapter 4 - THE TRAIN TICKET BENEATH THE FLOORBOARDS
The darkness inside the nursery was absolute, save for a thin sliver of light bleeding beneath the heavy oak door.
Charles threw his weight against the wood, shouting his wife’s name. His fists slammed against the ancient timber, but it didn't even rattle. The room had been built to keep the outside world away, and now it was doing its job flawlessly.
“It’s no use,” I said, stepping away from the crib. “She’s terrified. She won't open it.”
Charles slid down the door, running his hands through his silver hair. The illusion of his powerful, untouchable life had completely collapsed.
“Victoria,” he whispered to himself. “It was Victoria all along.”
I sat in the mahogany rocking chair. It creaked softly beneath my weight.
“My mother told me you ordered the fire,” I said into the darkness, needing to hear him say it. “She said you found out she was pregnant, and you couldn't risk the scandal of a billionaire leaving his high-society wife for a maid.”
Charles looked up at me from the floor. Even in the shadows, I could see the devastation in his eyes.
“I loved your mother, Clara,” he said, his voice breaking. “Evelyn and I had a business arrangement, not a marriage. When Elena told me she was pregnant, it was the happiest day of my life. I packed my bags. I locked this nursery to keep it a surprise. But when I got to the cottage… it was already burning.”
He held up his hands in the sliver of light. For three years, I had wondered about the smooth, shiny skin covering his palms.
“I tore burning wood apart trying to find you,” Charles wept. “Victoria told me you both perished in the basement. She handed me a tiny, charred blanket. I buried it. I buried my own heart.”
Answer One, Open Two. Charles was innocent. He had grieved us. But if Victoria ordered the hit, how did my mother escape? And why did Victoria leave her rosary in the locked nursery?
I knelt on the floor, running my hands over the dusty wooden floorboards beneath the crib. My fingers caught on a loose plank.
I pried it up.
Inside the small cavity was a faded piece of paper.
I brought it to the light under the door. It was an old train ticket. Dated twenty-two years ago. The exact night of the fire.
The destination was Chicago. The passenger name was blank, but the quantity clearly read: Two Passengers.
“Someone helped her escape,” I breathed, handing the ticket to Charles. “Someone bought her a ticket out of the city before the fire even started.”
Before Charles could process the ticket, a soft, scratching sound came from the brass heating vent near the ceiling.
We both froze.
“Hello?” a tiny, frightened voice echoed through the metal grate.
I stood up, walking toward the vent. “Who’s there?”
“I’m Leo,” the small voice whispered. “Grandma told me to hide in the walls when Aunt Victoria’s car pulls up. But I heard crying.”
Leo. Evelyn’s seven-year-old grandson. The boy whose parents had died in a private plane crash five years ago, leaving him the sole heir to Evelyn’s bloodline.
“Leo, sweetheart, it’s Clara,” I said gently, remembering the quiet little boy I sometimes slipped extra cookies to in the kitchen. “Can you help us? We’re locked inside the East Wing room.”
“I know,” Leo whispered. “I have the master keys. I stole them from Grandma’s desk.”
“Can you open the door?” Charles asked, hope flooding his voice.
“Yes,” Leo said. “But you have to hurry. Grandma is crying in the library, and she’s throwing all the books with numbers into the fireplace.”
Through the slats of the vent, a small, silver object dropped, dangling on a thin gold chain. It hit the floor with a soft chime.
May you like
I picked it up. It was a vintage pocket watch.
“That was my Daddy’s,” Leo whispered from the vent. “It means time is running out. Please hurry.”
