Chapter 18

Chase

I let go of the breath I’ve been holding as the maid trundles down the opposite corridor. The tension in my shoulders eases.

I step out from behind the wood-carved statue of a Roman goddess, one my father commissioned years ago.

Thanks to the fact that he liked to collect odds and ends, rather large odds and ends, the mansion is filled with hiding places, some of which I remember using despite my governess’ stern warnings.

Some of them are missing, though, like the huge sandglass that had real sand from the Sahara Desert, the Egyptian sarcophagus, the potted barrel cactus, and the gilded mirror my mother loved so much. Weird.

Apart from those missing pieces, everything here on the fourth floor looks the same as I remember, a rich, blue carpet adorning the corridors, tapestries depicting ancient emblems hanging from the walls alongside convincing replicas of paintings in the Louvre and crystal chandeliers suspended from the high ceiling.

The same gold and white curtains dress the windows, the view from them overlooking the gardens.

I run my fingers over the glass, and it squeaks but is eclipsed by the hammering downstairs. I lift my fingers, the tips still clean, without the slightest layer of dust, and nostalgia besets me.

This is home. My home.

It’s too bad that right now, I can’t call it sweet.

I walk down the hall, pass by the doors leading to the balcony, the one where my father jumped to his death. The doors are barred now and covered with a black cloth.

Well, that’s new. Before I left, these doors were a shrine, my father’s portrait perched on a table against them, the entire balcony outside filled with flowers, all a part of my mother’s plan, of course.

Now, that black cloth is a warning to haul ass.

I should, of course, but I’ve already made up my mind. I won’t leave until I find the answers I seek.

I enter the library, pushing the door only slightly open at first so that I can peek inside. I step in – place is empty – and click the door shut behind me.

This room is also as I remember, books on the heavy wooden shelves built into the walls arranged by genre and author. A stained glass dome in the middle of the room scatters the sunlight into colorful patches on the white fur rug while another rug, black, is spread out in front of the marble fireplace.

Different kinds of chairs – armchairs, couches, stools, bean bags, and divans – are scattered throughout the room as well as coffee tables and lamps perched on round tables.

I sit on one of the divans, running my fingers over the plush purple upholstery.

As I child, I never liked reading, but I did love this room.

Still, I shouldn’t be here.

I head to the other door on the opposite side of the room, I bump into a table, the lamp atop it toppling over the edge as it wobbles.

I whip out my hand, catch it, and freeze. Christ, that was close.

It may be too noisy downstairs that no one hears doors opening or floorboards creaking but if something shatters, someone will investigate. And who knows who that someone might be?

So far, I’ve only seen maids but who knows? Lauren saw one of those thugs the last time she was here.

I have to be more careful. I put the lamp back in place then go out the door.

I close it behind me, walking down another hall that leads to my father’s study.

If I’m going to find any evidence about what’s going on, I’m sure it will be in there.

I walk faster but stop halfway through. A thud sounds and I turn my head.

A woman, a maid, stands on the stairwell leading to the attic, a feather duster a few steps below her.

Shit.

I raise a finger to my lips. Don’t scream, woman.

She doesn’t, simply staring at me with dumbfounded, wide eyes. She’s pale as a sheet, frozen in place, a petrified statue. I slip away and leave her there.

I’m lucky she didn’t scream.

I have to hurry.

I reach the double oak doors to my father’s study, press my ear to the wood to make sure no one is about to spring on me.

Nothing, no sound. It’s empty.

Then again, I expected it to be, the study was my father’s private sanctuary during his lifetime, his sanctum where he hatched all his ideas, made all his important phone calls, and planned.

“Sorry, Dad,” I mumble under my breath.

I check over my shoulder – no one behind me. Good. Still, as a precaution, I grab a potted plant in the middle of the hall and topple it over.

Fragments of the soil, and the colorful marbles mixed in with pebbles inside the pot scatter across the carpet. It’s a mess but at least, it will help me hear if someone’s approaching.

I enter my father’s study, click the door closed behind me. I turn around and growl under my breath. Fuckers.

I can count the times I’ve been in this room on one hand, but each time it was pristine, impeccable, without a single paperclip out of place.

Now, there are books and sheets of paper scattered on the floor, some of them shredded, and every drawer hangs open, its contents in disarray.

The huge, mahogany desk is cluttered and my father’s family portrait, the one with him, his parents, and his brother, that hung above it, is on the floor with a gaping hole in the middle. Beside it lies the urn which contained my father’s ashes, now broken into pieces, remains on the floor.

“Bastards,” I grunt.

Who would do something like this? And why would they?

I pick my way around the desk. The computer is on. It’s doing something, active in some sort of program, so I bend over and get a closer look. I read the words on the screen.

Oh, Christ. The computer is deleting a massive amount of files from the company drive.

No.

I try to stop the process but fail. Commands and passwords are not registering. Desperate, I hit print instead, to make copies of the documents before they disappear.

The printer whirs to life, spouting out the copies one by one. I snatch the pieces of paper as they come out, my eyes furiously scanning them.

These are important documents, many of which have my father’s signature. Why are they being deleted?

I print out more than a dozen documents. A man grumbles curses down the hall.

I cancel the printing process and snatch the last document from the printer tray, then stalk toward the closet, slip inside. I stand deathly still and clutch the papers to my chest.

Seconds later, the door opens and I peek through the cracks in the closet door. One of those hired killers – the bald fucker with the thin beard, enters. He still has his sunglasses and pushes them up on his head as he looks around.

I hold my breath and don’t move a muscle.

Just in case, my eyes travel around the closet, resting on a black and silver walking cane in the corner. It’s probably not as strong as the hoe, or as deadly, but it will have to do if worse comes to worst.

If.

Mr. Sunglasses approaches the desk, kicking some of the sheets of paper away. He goes around the desk, leaning over the computer. Then he sits in the leather chair, swivels it to the side, and props his feet up.

He’s right in front of me. If he swivels that chair a little more, he’ll probably see me through the gaps in the shuttered closet door.

The sound of a phone ringing freezes my blood.

The man presses a cell to his ear. “Yeah, boss?”

Boss?

“Have the files been deleted?”

I freeze. The voice is muffled but distinctive. Loud enough for me to make out.

It’s Uncle Terrence. The thought makes my skin go cold and my stomach coil.

Oh, fuck – the light on the printer is still on. It’s still on.

If Mr. Sunglasses notices, I’m dead.

Thankfully, he doesn’t.

“Yeah,” he says, into the phone, and snatches a pen from the metal holder on his desk. He twirls it between his fingers. “It’s getting there.” Mr. Sunglasses shrugs. “There’s a lot.”

Uncle Terrence grumbles something indistinct.

“Everything’s going according to plan,” the goon assures him.

“ – failed me before. I’m not going – more slip-ups from you.”

The thug’s Adam’s apple bobs, the pen in his hand stops.

“And what about that other thing –?” my uncle asks – I can only make out every other word.

Mr. Sunglasses grins. “It’s been taken care of.”

“– renovations?” my uncle asks.

He twirls the pen again. “Messy. If you ask me, they’re going a bit slow.”

Another grumble.

“You’re the boss.”

“Back soon.”

Then the line goes dead.

The thug puts his phone back in his pocket and continues to twirl the pen, humming an unfamiliar tune.

He twirls it successfully a few times, it falls on the carpet right in front of the closet. I squeeze myself further against the wall.

He looks at the door to the closet.

It’s cold in the room, even in the closet but I’m sweating like a pig right now.

Look away, dick.

A crash sounds outside the room. The man in the sunglasses gets up, places the pen back in its holder. Slipping his sunglasses back on, he heads to the door.

“What the hell is happening?” he shouts down the passage.

“I slipped on a marble and fell,” another man answers, his voice familiar. “I think I pulled a hamstring.”

“Oh, quit whining like a baby. I’ll go get a maid.”

He leaves the room and slams the door behind him.

I wait a few minutes, then gulp a series of deep breaths. Anger thrills me – a dangerous pulse in the center of my forehead.

So Uncle Terrence is the one behind all this. He’s the one who tried to kill me, the one who hired the goons, the one who sent my mother off to a mental institution, the one who’s taken over the mansion, the one who’s deleted all the important company files.

This is a complete takeover.

The question is: Why?

I try to remember Uncle Terrence.

He’s younger, slightly taller. Darker hair than my father’s. Same eyes. He has a small scar above his eye from where he hit the edge of a table when he was a boy. He likes to drink wine, smokes occasionally. He didn’t like my mother, always scoffed when she was around. He liked me, though.

He always ruffled my hair, gave me presents for my birthday and when I got into all that partying that sometimes led to scandals or accidents, he was the only one who didn’t give me a lecture.

I liked him too.

Did he like my father? I thought he did. Did my father like him? Come to think of it, my dad often remarked that he felt sorry for Uncle Terrence, that he loved misery.

He never seemed miserable, but maybe he was. And maybe, just maybe, now that my father is gone, he has shown his true colors.

The pile of documents is heavy in my arms.

Hopefully, they will give me more than mere theories and speculations.

I put the papers on my lap and begin reading.