Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Pantry
By three o'clock in the morning, the mansion had settled into a suffocating, unnatural quiet.
The rain outside had turned to ice, rattling against the tall windows of the second-floor master suite like thrown glass. The suite was immense—a sprawling arrangement of oak-paneled rooms, a private marble fireplace burning low with aromatic cedar, and a massive four-poster bed where Lily lay buried under thick down comforters, sound asleep with Button the rabbit tucked under her arm.
I could not sleep.
I stood by the window in a plush cotton robe that had been left in the dressing room, staring down at the dark, snow-dusted courtyard below.
Down in the driveway, three black SUVs sat with their engines idling, their exhaust rising like grey ghosts in the freezing winter air. Every twenty minutes, dark figures moved across the perimeter walls—Vincent’s men, fully armed, reinforcing the estate's security protocol.
A quiet knock came at the heavy double doors of the suite.
I crept across the thick oriental rug and opened the door two inches.
Marco stood in the hallway. The old enforcer looked tired, his heavy wool coat damp with ice, a silver thermite lantern held in his left hand.
"Mrs. Carter," Marco said in his deep, gravelly voice. "Mr. Moretti asked me to check if you required anything before the morning shift arrives."
"I'm fine, Marco," I whispered. "Is... is everything alright downstairs?"
Marco’s face remained impassive, but his gray eyes shifted slightly toward the end of the long corridor. "The Bellini party has been moved off the premises. Mr. Moretti is currently in his father's private archives on the ground floor."
"At three in the morning?"
"He hasn't slept in thirty-six hours," Marco noted flatly. "When the boss goes into the archives after a breach, he stays there until he finds the paper trail. If I were you, ma'am, I'd stay inside this suite until six. Some of the boys are... agitated."
He turned to leave, but I stepped slightly into the doorway. "Marco. Wait."
He stopped, looking back over his shoulder.
"The back service gate," I said softly. "You said it was left unbolted at seven o'clock tonight."
"It was," Marco confirmed, his brow furrowing slightly. "Only four people have the master key to that gate lock: me, Mr. Moretti, the chief butler, Arthur, and the head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable."
My stomach did a slow, nauseating turn.
Mrs. Gable had worked for the Moretti family for twenty-two years. She was sixty-one, strict, impeccably organized, and had been the person who hired me eighteen months ago when I arrived in Manhattan desperate, broke, and fleeing my own past.
"Mrs. Gable was in the kitchen all evening," I said, trying to convince myself. "She was supervising the roast lamb."
"Mrs. Gable went down to the wine cellar at six-forty5 PM," Marco said flatly. "She claimed she was fetching the '98 Bordeaux that Dr. Reed requested. She was down there for twelve minutes."
He looked at me with a sharp, calculating gaze. "Why? Did you see something, Nora?"
I remembered seven o'clock clearly.
I had been in the secondary butler's pantry, polishing the silver serving platters before the dinner service began. I had heard soft footsteps coming down the back corridor— footsteps that were light, quick, and rhythmically uneven, like someone walking with a slight limp.
Mrs. Gable didn't limp.
But Arthur, the seventy-year-old chief butler who had served Vincent's father until his death, had severe arthritis in his left hip.
"Arthur," I whispered, the word slipping out before I could stop it.
Marco’s posture stiffened instantly. His hand moved half an inch closer to the holstered weapon beneath his heavy wool coat. "What about Arthur?"
"At six-forty-eight," I said, my heart hammering in my chest, "I was in the pantry polishing platters. Someone walked past the door toward the service gate. They were dragging their left foot. I thought it was just Arthur taking out the dry linen recycling."
"Arthur was in the main dining room setting the crystal at six-forty-eight," Marco said, his voice dropping into a register that chilled me to the bone. "I spoke to him at the side table while he was opening the water carafes."
We stared at each other in the dim, golden light of the corridor.
If Arthur was in the dining room, and Mrs. Gable was in the cellar... who had walked past the pantry with a limp?
"Stay in this room," Marco ordered softly. "Lock the deadbolt behind me. Do not open this door for anyone except me or Mr. Moretti. Do you understand?"
"Marco—"
"Lock the door, Nora!" he whispered fiercely.
He turned and moved down the corridor with terrifying, silent speed, pulling his weapon from beneath his coat as he disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell.
I closed the door immediately, turning the heavy brass deadbolt until it clicked into place.
I stood with my back pressed against the thick oak door, my chest heaving, listening to the absolute silence of the vast, historic mansion.
May you like
Then, from the adjoining dressing room inside the suite—a room that connected directly to the old service ventilation shafts—I heard a faint, soft scraping sound.
Like leather shoes dragging slowly across wooden floorboards.
