Chapter 3 - The Forbidden North Wing
The pearl burned a hole in Clara’s pocket for the next two days. She couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Tyler’s hospital monitors, and then she saw Noah’s desperate, silent plea.
She knew what happened to people who asked questions in a house like this. They disappeared. Dominic Vale was not a man you brought conspiracy theories to, especially not from a twenty-two-year-old maid from Cicero.
But Clara couldn't let it go. The police report said it was a random hit by a rival mob family. They claimed Elena Vale had been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. But Noah’s diorama suggested something else. He was there in the car. He saw it all. And he was obsessed with a white pearl.
“You are assigned to the second-floor guest rooms today, Clara,” Mrs. Hargrove announced coldly at the morning briefing. “I expect perfection. Do not linger in the hallways. And remember, the North Wing is strictly off-limits.”
Clara nodded obediently. She gathered her supplies and headed upstairs. The mansion was quiet. Dominic had left early in a convoy of black SUVs, dealing with business at the docks.
Clara cleaned the guest rooms mechanically, her mind elsewhere. When she finished, she stood in the long, carpeted hallway. To her left were the main stairs. To her right, double oak doors marked the entrance to the North Wing. Elena Vale’s former private suites.
Never enter the North Wing.
Clara looked around. The hallway cameras were pointed toward the stairwell, leaving a small blind spot right at the oak doors. She thought of Tyler. If she got fired today, Tyler would die. Then she thought of Noah, hiding under a sofa, screaming a truth nobody could hear.
Clara took a deep breath, grabbed her cleaning cart, and pushed it quietly toward the oak doors. She turned the brass handle. It was unlocked.
She slipped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
The air in the North Wing felt stale and cold. Dust motes danced in the slivers of sunlight leaking through heavy velvet drapes. The furniture was covered in white sheets, making the rooms look like a graveyard of memories.
Clara moved cautiously into the master bedroom. It was untouched since the day Elena died. A silver hairbrush sat on the vanity. A bottle of dried perfume. A framed photograph of Dominic, Elena, and a baby Noah on the nightstand.
Clara approached the vanity. She didn't know what she was looking for. She opened the top drawer. Old letters, a silk scarf, an empty jewelry box. She opened the second drawer. It was stuck.
She wiggled it gently, pulling harder until it popped open with a scrape. Inside lay a leather-bound diary and a small velvet pouch. Clara’s heart hammered against her ribs. She reached for the pouch and tipped it into her hand.
A broken necklace spilled out. It was a string of pearls. But it was incomplete. Several pearls were missing from the center, the silk thread violently snapped.
Clara stared at the pearls. They were identical in size, luster, and shape to the one Noah had handed her in the playroom.
"What are you doing in here?"
The voice cracked through the silence like a whip. Clara gasped, dropping the pearls onto the vanity. She spun around.
Standing in the doorway, her face twisted in a mask of absolute fury, was Mrs. Hargrove. The house manager’s eyes darted from Clara’s terrified face down to the broken necklace on the vanity.
“I… I was just…” Clara stammered, backing away.
Mrs. Hargrove stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. The elegance was gone from her posture. She looked dangerous. “I told you, you stupid girl,” Mrs. Hargrove hissed, advancing on Clara. “You do not enter this wing.”
As the older woman moved into the light, Clara’s eyes caught something resting at the collar of Mrs. Hargrove’s dark dress. The pearl brooch. It sat there, staring at Clara like a single, milky white eye.
Clara’s blood ran cold. She looked at the broken necklace on the vanity, then at the single pearl in her pocket, then at the brooch on Mrs. Hargrove’s neck. The pieces of the puzzle slammed together with terrifying clarity.
Mrs. Hargrove raised a hand, stepping closer. “You are fired. And you are going to learn what happens to thieves in this house.”
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Before Mrs. Hargrove could grab her, the heavy oak door swung open with a violent crash. Dominic Vale stood there, casting a long, dark shadow across the room. His eyes locked onto Clara, then onto Mrs. Hargrove.
“What the hell is going on here?” Dominic demanded, his voice dropping the temperature in the room by ten degrees.
