Chapter 4 - The Return to the Lake
The drive back to the lakefront estate was silent.
Walter drove a dark grey Mercedes sedan, taking the back roads through the pine woods to avoid the primary security gates where Victoria’s private guards were posted.
By ten o'clock, the fog off Lake Michigan had thickened, wrapping the grey limestone walls of the Marquetti mansion in a heavy, wet shroud. The pine trees dripped with cold condensation, and the wind off the water whistled through the high wrought-iron fence.
We entered through the basement service entrance near the wine cellar.
Walter led me up a narrow cast-iron spiral staircase that emerged behind the pantry wall, far from the main stairs where I had fallen four hours earlier.
The house was unnaturally quiet. The usual hum of the central heating system felt muted, as if the massive building itself were holding its breath.
As we reached the second-floor gallery overlooking the grand library, the sound of raised voices carried through the heavy oak double doors below.
“—you have no legal authority to lock down the estate, Gideon!”
That was Victoria. Her voice was high, sharp, and laced with an icy, aristocratic fury that cut through the wood paneling like a razor.
“I have every authority as the chief executive officer of the Marquetti Holding Corporation,” Gideon’s voice replied. His tone was measured, low, and terrifyingly cold. “Until the forensic team finishes analyzing the oil samples from the back staircase, no one leaves this property. Not you, not your drivers, and not your attorneys.”
“A nurse slipped!” Victoria laughed—a harsh, brittle sound that had no joy in it. “She’s an incompetent, clumsy girl from a county hospital who couldn't handle a heavy tray! You’ve hired nine hysterical women who couldn't last a week in a real household, and now you’re using a domestic accident to accuse your own sister of a crime!”
“She didn't slip, Victoria,” Gideon said. “The oil was placed intentionally. The security log was wiped from your personal terminal at 5:12 AM.”
“My terminal?” Victoria sneered. “My laptop was sitting on my nightstand all night! Anyone could have accessed the local network if they had the administrative password—including your precious old butler, or that nurse herself to cover up her own medical mistake!”
I stood on the mezzanine gallery above the library, leaning against the dark walnut balustrade. My wrist throbbed with a rhythmic, pounding heat beneath the heavy plaster cast, but my mind was entirely clear.
I looked down through the geometric glass panes of the library’s internal transom window.
Gideon was standing near the large marble fireplace, dressed in a fresh dark suit, his arms folded across his chest. Victoria stood five feet away, wearing a tailored cream wool dress, her blonde hair pulled back into a flawless chignon. Behind her stood two men in grey suits—her personal attorneys—holding leather briefcases.
And sitting in the corner of the room, half-hidden in the shadows behind the grand piano, was a young man I had never seen before.
He was twenty-four or twenty-five, wearing a rumpled driver’s uniform with the Marquetti crest on the collar. His hands were tucked deep into his jacket pockets, and he was staring at the rug with a tense, sweat-slicked intensity that made my professional instincts scream.
I leaned closer to Walter, who was standing two steps behind me on the gallery.
“Who is the boy behind the piano?” I whispered.
Walter looked down through the glass, his eyes narrowing. “That’s Julian. He was hired three weeks ago as Miss Victoria’s primary chauffeur. His uncle runs one of our distribution warehouses in Cicero.”
“Look at his right coat pocket,” I murmured.
Walter leaned forward.
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Inside Julian’s right pocket, something heavy was dragging the fabric down—a sharp, square outline that looked entirely too large for a set of car keys. And around his left cuff, barely visible against the dark wool of his jacket, was a distinct, faint yellow stain that shone greasy under the chandelier light.
He hadn't wiped his coat after carrying the five-liter oil tin up from the basement cellar.
