Chapter Eighteen

Chase

I let go of the breath I’ve been holding as I watch the maid go down the opposite corridor, sighing in relief and letting the tension out of my shoulders as 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 as a child against my governess’ stern warnings.

I notice some of them 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. I wonder what’s become of those.

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 exactly as I remember.

I run my fingers over the glass, making just a slight squeaking sound, which is eclipsed by all the hammering going on downstairs. As I lift my fingers and see the tips still clean, without the slightest layer of dust as always, a nostalgic feeling sweeps over me.

This is home. My home.

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

I keep walking down the hall, passing 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, seeing the black cloth sends a chill up my spine, as if warning me to get out.

I know I should, of course, a lump forming in my throat. But I’ve already made up my mind that 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 and then quickly stepping in when I’ve made sure it’s empty, closing the door behind me with a click.

This room is also just 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, beanbags, 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.

As 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. Thankfully, I manage to catch it just before it hits the floor, heaving a sigh of relief.

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

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

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 when I suddenly hear a thud. Turning my head, I see a maid on the stairwell leading to the attic, a feather duster a few steps below her.

Shit.

Slowly, I raise a finger to my lips, hoping that she won’t scream.

She doesn’t, simply staring at me with dumbfounded, wide eyes, the color drained from her cheeks. Frozen in place, she looks like a petrified statue and under different circumstances, I would have shaken her shoulders and asked her if she’s all right. But not right now. I slip away, leaving her there.

I’m lucky she didn’t scream. Still, someone has seen me so my luck is running out.

I have to hurry.

Reaching the double oak doors to my father’s study, I press my ear to the wood to make sure no one is about to spring on me inside the room, hearing nothing.

Good. It’s empty.

Then again, I expected it to be, the study being my father’s private sanctuary during his lifetime, his sacred sanctum where he hatched all his ideas, made all his important phone calls, and planned all his plans. In fact, I’ve barely been inside it since he was alive and since his death, I haven’t been in it once.

“Sorry, Dad,” I mumble under my breath as I reach for the knob.

Just before I turn it, I glance back at the hall. No one is behind me. Good. Still, just 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 the pebbles inside the pot scattering on the carpet. It’s a mess but at least, it will help me hear if someone’s approaching.

Satisfied with my trap, I go inside my father’s study, scurrying behind the door and closing it. As I turn around, my eyes grow wide with horror.

I may be able to count the times I was here in this room on my fingers but I clearly remember how pristine it was, how 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 is hanging 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 used to hang above it is on the floor with a gaping hole in the middle that looks like it was left by someone’s knee. Beside it is the urn that contained my father’s ashes, now broken into pieces, the ashes on the floor.

“Fuck,” I mutter, standing in the middle of the room amid all the mess.

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

I go behind the desk and discover the computer is turned on. It’s doing something, active in some sort of program, so I bend over it to get a closer look. I read the words on the screen, frowning when I realize that 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 think of printing them instead, trying 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 manage to print out more than a dozen documents before I hear a man grumbling curses down the hall.

Quickly, I cancel the printing process and snatch the last document from the tray of the printer before heading toward the closet, standing deathly still as I clutch the papers to my chest.

Seconds later, the door opens and through the cracks of the closet door, I see one of the men who tried to kill me – the bald man with the thin beard, except he has a thin layer of hair now and his beard is gone. He still has his sunglasses, which he pushes up to his head as he looks around.

I hold my breath, not moving a muscle. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer in my chest and I can only hope that the thug doesn’t hear it.

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.

A knot forms in my throat.

He’s right in front of me. If he swivels that chair just a little more, he’ll probably see me through the gaps in the shuttered closet door, which is why I take just a tiny step backward.

The sound of a phone ringing almost makes me jump.

The man answers it, pressing the phone to his ear. “Yeah, boss?”

Boss?

“Have the files been deleted?”

I freeze, recognizing my uncle’s voice.

So, it is Uncle Terrence who tried to kill me after all. The thought makes my skin go cold and my stomach coil.

To make matters worse, I suddenly notice something else that sends me into a panic – the light on the printer is still on. It’s still on.

If Mr. Sunglasses notices, I’m dead.

Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone, reaching for a pen from the metal holder on his desk so that he can twirl it between his fingers. “It’s getting there.”

“Getting there?” My uncle sounds displeased.

Mr. Sunglasses shrugs. “There’s a lot.”

Uncle Terrence grumbles.

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

“It better. You’ve failed me before. I’m not going to tolerate any more slip-ups from you.”

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

“And what about that other thing I asked you to take care of?” my uncle asks.

My ears perk up. What other thing?

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

This time, it’s I who suppresses a shiver.

“And how are the renovations?” my uncle asks.

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

Another grumble. “I’ll talk to the man in charge when I get home.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Don’t forget. I’ll be 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 manages to twirl it successfully a few times but suddenly, it falls on the carpet right in front of the closet. I squeeze myself further against the wall, drawing a deep breath as he bends over to pick it up. As he looks up, his gaze goes right through the door.

Fuck.

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

Look away. Look away.

Just then, I hear a crash outside the room. The man in the sunglasses gets up, placing the pen back in its holder. Slipping his sunglasses back on, he heads to the door, peering out.

“What the hell is happening?” he shouts.

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

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

He leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

I wait a few minutes before I breathe, gulping a series of deep breaths. Then I move, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor on top of the boxes of office supplies, the documents still clutched to my chest over where my heartbeat has only slowed down a few milliseconds.

So Uncle Terrence is the one behind all this. He’s the one who tried to kill me, the one who hired all 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?

Staring at the wall across me, 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 just a boy. He likes to drink wine, smokes occasionally. He didn’t like my mother, always scoffing 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.

Needless to say, 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, saying that he loved misery.

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

I glance at the pile of documents in my arms.

Hopefully, they will give me more than mere theories and speculations so that I can finally understand what’s going on and have the power to set everything right.

I put the papers on my lap and begin reading.