Chapter 2 - The Silent Floor
Three floors below, in the industrial kitchen of the mansion, Hunter Higgins stood before a massive copper sink, scrubbing a brass roasting pan with steel wool. Her hands were raw, the skin around her knuckles red and cracked from the cheap, industrial-strength bleach the head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, insisted on using.
She wore the gray linen uniform of the house's lower staff—a plain, boxy dress that hung loosely on her frame, and a white apron that she had tied tight around her waist. Too tight. She had pulled the apron strings until they bit into her ribs, trying to flatten the gentle curve of her stomach, trying to suppress the heavy, aching fullness in her breasts that had not gone away.
She was twenty-four, but when she looked in the small, spotted mirror above the dishwashing station, she saw the face of an old woman. Her brown hair was pulled back into a severe, tidy bun, and her green eyes were sunken, surrounded by dark circles that no amount of sleep could cure.
Not that she slept.
Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in the hallway of her apartment in Queens. She could still smell the stale beer on Tommy’s breath, still feel the cold, heavy grip of his hand on her shoulder as he yelled about the three hundred dollars she had hidden in the flour jar—money she had saved for a crib, for diapers, for the small, cotton onesies she had kept hidden under her bed.
“You think you’re better than me?” Tommy had screamed, his face red, his eyes wild with the desperation of a man who owed money to people who broke bones. “You think you’re keeping this from me?”
Then came the shove.
The sensation of falling backward had been surprisingly slow. She remembered the rough, gray carpet of the stairs, the sharp corner of the wooden banister hitting her lower back, and then the silence. The terrible, absolute silence of her own body.
The hospital had been cold. The doctor had been tired, his voice flat as he delivered the news that Hunter already knew in her gut.
“Intrauterine fetal demise,” he had said, using the clean, Latin terms to describe the fact that her daughter’s heart had stopped beating before she ever had the chance to draw a breath.
They had let her hold the baby for twenty-seven minutes. Hunter had named her Lily. She had memorized the shape of her tiny, perfect fingernails, the small tuft of dark hair on her crown, and the way her lips were parted, as if she were about to ask a question.
That was three weeks ago.
Now, Hunter rinsed the soap from the brass pan, her movements mechanical, her mind blank. She had taken the job at the Rossi estate because she had no other choice. Tommy had vanished, taking her savings and leaving her with a month’s unpaid rent and a pile of medical bills from the county hospital. The agency had warned her that the Rossi house was... different. They told her the master of the house was a powerful man, a grieving widower who did not tolerate noise, mistakes, or curiosity.
"Keep your head down, Hunter," the agency representative had said. "Don't look the guards in the eye. Don't speak to anyone unless they speak to you first. And whatever you do, stay away from the third floor. That’s where the master’s suite and the nursery are. If you’re found up there, you’ll be dismissed immediately. No references. No pay."
Hunter had agreed. She didn't want to talk to anyone. She didn't want to be looked at. She wanted to work until her bones ached, sleep for four hours in the small, damp basement room she shared with the heating pipes, and repeat the cycle until the pain in her chest became something she could carry without weeping.
But her body was not cooperating.
As she reached for another brass lid, a sudden, sharp pain flared across her chest. It was a hot, heavy pressure, accompanied by a slow, spreading dampness that soaked through her thin cotton bra and began to darken the gray linen of her uniform.
The milk was coming in again.
It had been doing this for two weeks, defying the tight linen bandages she wrapped around her ribs every morning, defying the cabbage leaves she stuffed into her bra to dry the flow. Her body did not understand that Lily was buried in a small, unmarked grave in Queens. Her body still believed there was a child to feed.
"Hunter!"
She jumped, nearly dropping the heavy lid into the sink.
Mrs. Gable, a severe woman with gray hair pulled into a knot so tight it seemed to pull the skin of her temples taut, stood in the kitchen doorway. She was holding a tray of clean crystal glasses.
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"You’re behind," Mrs. Gable said, her eyes scanning Hunter’s uniform with cold, professional appraisal. She stopped, her gaze lingering on the damp patches near Hunter’s collarbone. Her mouth thinned into a hard line, but she said nothing about it. In this house, weakness was not discussed; it was ignored until it could be replaced. "Take these up to the second-floor library. Mr. Rossi has guests arriving at midnight. And make sure you use the back stairs. The master is on the third floor, and he is... not to be disturbed."
"Yes, Mrs. Gable," Hunter said, her voice barely a whisper. She wiped her wet hands on her apron, took the heavy silver tray, and walked toward the narrow, carpeted stairs that led to the upper floors.
