Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Master Study
The heavy oak door of the master study swung open with a faint, ghostly creak. On the surveillance monitor, Arthur watched Hilda slip inside the room, her silhouette illuminated only by the pale moonlight cutting through the tall Palladian windows. For two years, Arthur had treated this room as a shrine. Elena’s leather-bound journals, her medical books, and her personal effects remained exactly where she had left them. No one had been allowed inside—not even the cleaning staff.
Yet Hilda moved through the space with terrifying familiarity, walking straight toward the antique mahogany bookcase against the far wall. She reached behind a heavy leather volume of nineteenth-century poetry, pressed a hidden latch, and a false panel popped open with a soft metallic click.
Arthur’s hands curled into tight fists on his desk. "She’s looking for Elena’s private medical records," he muttered.
"What's in those records, Arthur?" Calvin asked, leaning over the monitor. "You said Elena died of an aneurysm. Is there something else?"
"I don't know," Arthur confessed, his voice tight. "The autopsy was performed by a local coroner recommended by our family lawyer at the time—a lawyer who, coincidentally, was retained by Victoria’s legal team years ago."
On the screen, Hilda pulled a thick, leather-bound ledger from the hidden compartment. She flipped through the pages, her expression illuminated by a small penlight she had pulled from her pocket. She stopped at a page near the middle, running a bony finger down a list of handwritten notes in Elena’s precise, elegant cursive. Then, Hilda pulled a miniature camera from her apron pocket and began photographing every single page.
"We can't let her leave that room with those documents," Arthur said, starting to stand up.
"Wait," Calvin grabbed Arthur’s shoulder, pointing at another monitor showing the hallway outside the study. "Look who’s coming."
Down the dimly lit corridor, two small figures in matching flannel pajamas were sleepwalking—or rather, stumbling. It was Rosalyn and Camille. Driven by persistent, gnawing hunger, the little girls had somehow managed to pick the primitive mechanical latch on the nursery door—a trick Martha the homeless woman had whispered to them through the bars the night before. They were wandering out into the mansion, sleep-deprived and searching for food.
On the main monitor, the girls turned the corner and headed straight for the master study, their bare feet padding softly against the Persian runner.
Arthur’s heart stopped. If Hilda caught them wandering out of the nursery, God knew what she would do to silence them.
"Calvin, take the service corridor and secure the nursery doors so they can't wander further," Arthur ordered, already moving toward the private elevator that led directly to the upper floors. "I’m going to the study."
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"Arthur, be careful. Hilda isn't just a disgruntled employee; she’s operating on someone else's payroll," Calvin warned, drawing his sidearm from its concealed holster.
Arthur didn't answer. He stepped into the elevator, punched the code for the second floor, and watched the digital floor numbers tick upward like a countdown to an explosion.
