THE SHADOW UNDER THE TREE

The grand dining room was completely deserted when I walked back down the wide staircase.

The thirty-two wealthy guests had long since fled, terrified by the sound of gunfire echoing through the mansion. The long mahogany table looked like a battlefield of excess—half-empty champagne flutes, melting wax candles, and scattered crystal silverware reflecting the harsh overhead lights.

At the far end of the table, sitting alone in her stunning red silk gown, was Celeste Harrington.

She was pouring herself a fresh glass of amber scotch with hands that shook so violently the liquor spilled over the crystal rim, staining the white linen tablecloth.

I took a deep breath, clutching the encrypted recording device tightly in my apron pocket, and stepped into the room.

“You’re still here, Mrs. Harrington,” I said, my voice cutting cleanly through the quiet.

Celeste jolted, her head snapping up. Her mascara was slightly smudged around her sharp green eyes, stripping away her polished socialite veneer and revealing the frantic, trapped predator underneath.

“What do you want, you miserable little maid?” Celeste spat, slamming her glass down. “Shouldn’t you be scrubbing floors somewhere?”

“Mr. Romano is busy with the police and security,” I replied, walking steadily toward the table until I was only a few feet away. “He asked me to check on the dining room.”

Celeste sneered, leaning back in her velvet chair. “He’s probably looking for a way to pin this ridiculous mess on me. Well, it won’t work. My family has influence in this city. When my father hears that Dominic allowed a common servant to accuse me of kidnapping his brat, heads will roll.”

“Kidnapping?” I raised an eyebrow, my hand sliding into my apron pocket to activate the hidden recorder. “Mr. Romano didn’t say anything about kidnapping, Mrs. Harrington. He mentioned an intruder in the garden. How did you know the boy was kidnapped?”

Celeste froze.

The color drained entirely from her face, leaving her skin chalk-white against her red gown. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

“That’s a very interesting slip of the tongue,” I continued, keeping my tone calm and measured. “Especially considering what was found in Oliver’s pocket.”

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the heavy silver locket, and dropped it onto the mahogany table with a sharp, metallic clatter.

Celeste stared at the locket as if it were a venomous snake.

“Where did you get that?” she whispered, her voice dropping into a harsh, frantic hiss.

“Oliver gave it to me,” I lied smoothly. “He said you told him to keep it hidden as a secret present. And I read what’s written on the back, Celeste. The address of Elena Romano’s house. The cracked camera lens with your initials. The New York syndicate connection.”

Celeste stood up so fast her chair screeched loudly against the marble floor.

“You shouldn’t have looked at that,” she breathed, her eyes darting around the empty room like a trapped animal looking for an exit. “You’re digging your own grave, Hannah. You think Dominic cares about a maid? He’s a mafia boss. When he’s done using you, he disposes of people like trash.”

“Maybe,” I said, holding my ground. “Or maybe he cares enough about his first wife’s murder to listen to this.”

I tapped my apron pocket, letting her know the recorder was running.

Celeste let out a shrill, hysterical laugh.

“You think a little audio recording is going to save you?” she mocked, her hands darting behind her back to the sideboard. “I’ve survived things you can’t even imagine, Hannah. I survived New York. I survived Elena. And I sure as hell am not going down because a maid played detective!”

Before I could react, Celeste whipped her hand back around.

She wasn’t holding a glass. She was holding a heavy, silver-plated ice bucket.

She swung it viciously toward my head.

I ducked instinctively, but the heavy metal grazed my temple, sending a sharp burst of white-hot pain through my skull. I stumbled hard against the long table, knocking over several champagne flutes as I hit the floor.

Celeste didn’t hesitate. She grabbed her designer handbag from the chair, turned on her high heels, and bolted toward the back service doors leading to the kitchens.

“Hey!” I shouted, clutching my bleeding temple as I pushed myself up off the floor.

I scrambled after her through the swinging double doors, bursting into the massive industrial kitchen.

It was empty. The stainless-steel counters gleamed under the fluorescent lights, but the back exit door was wide open, letting in a gust of freezing winter wind and swirling snow.

Celeste was gone into the night.

I pressed my hand against my throbbing temple, feeling warm blood trickling down my cheek. I pulled the recording device from my apron, checking the small green indicator light. It was still blinking.

I had her confession. Every single word.

Suddenly, a heavy shadow fell across the kitchen doorway behind me.

I spun around, bracing myself for another attack.

It was Michael, the head of security. He was holding a thick, leather-bound journal in his large hands, looking grim.

“Hannah, are you alright? You’re bleeding,” Michael said, stepping into the kitchen.

“I’m fine,” I panted, pressing a napkin to my temple. “Celeste just fled through the back door. She attacked me.”

“She won’t get far,” Michael said darkly, holding up the leather journal. “We searched her private suite upstairs while you were down here. We found this hidden inside the false bottom of her wardrobe.”

I looked at the journal. The leather was old, worn, and water-damaged. Embossed on the front cover in faded gold lettering was a name that made my breath catch.

Elena Romano.

“It’s Dominic’s first wife’s personal diary,” Michael explained, his voice low. “Celeste stole it the night she burned the house down. And inside… there’s an entry written on the exact day Elena died.”

Michael flipped the journal open to a dog-eared page, holding it out under the kitchen lights so I could read the frantic handwriting.

“December 24th. Four years ago tonight. I found out Celeste is working for the New York syndicate. She’s planning to frame Dominic for embezzlement. If anything happens to me, I’m hiding the real financial ledgers inside the grandfather clock in the main foyer. God help us all.”

I stared at the page, my mind racing.

The grandfather clock in the main foyer. It stood less than twenty feet away, ticking away the hours until Christmas Day.

“Has Mr. Romano seen this?” I asked.

“Not yet,” Michael replied. “He’s still securing the grounds. But Hannah… there’s something else clipped to the back page of the journal.”

Michael turned the book over.

Tucked into the back binding was a folded, legal-sized document bearing the official seal of the State of Illinois.

It wasn't a diary entry. It wasn't a ledger.