Chapter 3 - The Sound of Cracking Glass
The conservatory was located at the far western tip of Blackwood Manor.
Unlike the rest of the dark, timbered estate, this room was a cathedral of glass, iron, and green foliage.
Towering philodendrons, weeping figs, and thick clusters of Boston ferns created a natural, living canopy that absorbed the sharp echoes of the manor.
The glass panes overhead were frosted with a matte coating, transforming the piercing morning daylight into a soft, diffused glow that wouldn't agitate sensitive retinas.
In the center of the room, sitting on a round braided rug beneath a sprawling fig tree, was Ava.
She was wearing an oversized yellow knitted sweater, her small knees pulled up to her chest, surrounded by dozens of colored wooden blocks.
Beside her on a low wicker table sat a porcelain plate with untouched scrambled eggs and cut strawberries.
A young woman in a crisp maid’s uniform stood ten feet away, wringing her hands in visible distress.
“Miss Ava, please... your father said you must eat three bites before your morning lesson,” the maid pleaded softly.
Ava didn't respond.
She was rhythmically stacking blue wooden blocks into a perfect, flawless vertical tower.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Her breathing was shallow, fast, and anxious.
Natalie gestured for the maid to step back.
“I’ve got it,” Natalie whispered. “Thank you.”
The maid looked at Natalie with immense relief, nodded quickly, and slipped out of the glass conservatory, pulling the iron latch shut behind her.
Natalie didn't rush forward.
She didn't announce her presence.
She sat down quietly on the flagstone floor four feet away from the edge of the braided rug, crossing her legs.
She opened her canvas tote, pulled out a small, unvarnished wooden sphere she had carried in her pocket since Leo’s early therapy days, and began to roll it slowly between her palms.
The soft, rhythmic shhh-shhh of the wood against her skin filled the quiet room.
Ava’s hand paused on the seventh block.
She didn't turn her head, but her small shoulders dropped half an inch.
“You smell like vanilla,” Ava said into the silence, her voice tiny, thin, and fragile.
Natalie smiled, continuing to roll the wooden ball.
“That’s my hand lotion. Does it hurt your nose?”
Ava hesitated, then shook her head once.
“No. It’s better than the grey lady. The grey lady smells like vinegar and laundry soap.”
Natalie stifled a chuckle, recognizing the unmistakable description of Mrs. Gable.
“I can switch to unscented tomorrow if you want, Ava.”
The little girl slowly placed an eighth block onto the precarious tower.
“You came back.”
“I told you I would.”
“The bad lady at the store said you were gone forever.”
Natalie leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees.
“The bad lady doesn't make the rules anymore, sweetie. Your dad hired me. My only job in this whole giant house is to hang out with you, read books, and make sure things don't get too loud.”
Ava turned her head slowly.
Her blue eyes were ringed with faint shadows, betraying a night of restless, broken sleep.
She looked at the wooden sphere in Natalie’s hands.
“What is that?”
“Just an old wooden ball. It’s smooth. It feels cool when your hands get sweaty.”
Natalie held it out on an open, flat palm, not moving an inch closer.
Ava stared at it for a long minute.
Then, she crawled across the rug on her knees and reached out with two small fingers, lifting the sphere from Natalie’s hand.
She rubbed it against her cheek, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.
“It doesn't make noise.”
“Not a sound,” Natalie agreed gently. “Ava, how about we make a deal? You take three bites of those strawberries, and I’ll show you how to build a block tower that doesn't fall down even if Marcus slams the front door.”
Ava looked at the plate on the wicker table, then back at the wooden ball.
“Four strawberries,” Ava negotiated softly. “The ones without the seeds on top.”
“Deal.”
For the next two hours, the grand, terrifying estate of Damian DeLuca faded into the background.
Natalie sat on the rug, guiding Ava through sensory integration exercises disguised as simple games.
They built architectural fortresses with the wooden blocks.
Natalie taught her a breathing technique—smell the flower, blow out the candle—that helped regulate the panic when an airplane rumbled low through the clouds above the estate.
By eleven o'clock, Ava had finished her entire plate of fruit and half the eggs.
She was laughing—a quiet, musical sound that seemed completely foreign to the heavy, solemn stone walls of Blackwood Manor.
Then, the heavy iron door of the conservatory clicked open.
Natalie turned, expecting Mrs. Gable with a scowl and a critique of their progress.
It wasn't Mrs. Gable.
A young man stepped into the conservatory.
He looked no older than twenty-five, dressed in an expensive camel-hair overcoat, his dark hair slicked back with heavy pomade.
He shared Damian DeLuca’s high cheekbones and sharp jaw, but lacked every shred of Damian's disciplined restraint.
His eyes were bloodshot, nervous, and flitting frantically between the glass exits.
Ava’s laughter stopped instantly.
The little girl dropped the wooden blocks, scrambled behind Natalie’s back, and buried her face into Natalie’s cardigan, trembling violently.
Natalie stood up smoothly, keeping Ava tucked safely behind her legs.
“Can I help you?” Natalie asked, her voice calm but firmly defensive.
The young man stopped three feet away, reeking of expensive gin and burnt tobacco.
He looked down at Natalie with a sneer that didn't quite mask the terror vibrating in his hands.
“So you’re the charity case Damian brought in from Michigan Avenue,” he said, his voice slurred and bitter. “The retail girl who thinks she’s a saint.”
“I am Ava’s caregiver,” Natalie replied, stepping to the left to block his view of the child. “And Ava is in the middle of a quiet session. Visitors are not permitted without Mr. DeLuca’s authorization.”
The man let out a harsh, barking laugh.
“Authorization? I don't need authorization from my own brother to see my niece!”
Brother.
This was Julian DeLuca—the reckless younger sibling Natalie had read about in the archives of the Chicago Tribune.
The family screw-up who had racked up millions in casino debts across Las Vegas and Atlantic City.
Julian took an aggressive step closer, leaning over Natalie.
“Tell me something, sweetie. Did Damian tell you what happened to the last girl who sat in that chair? Did he mention how her car ended up at the bottom of the Calumet River?”
“Julian.”
The single word cut through the humid air of the conservatory like a straight razor.
Julian froze.
The color drained from his flushed face in an instant.
Damian stood in the arched doorway of the conservatory.
He hadn't made a sound approaching.
He had donned his suit jacket once more, his hands resting loosely at his sides, but the sheer, murderous violence radiating from his posture made the very glass above them seem to vibrate.
Behind Damian stood Marcus, his hand unbuttoned inside his jacket, resting flat against his concealed holster.
Julian swallowed hard, taking a stumbling step backward.
“Damian... hey. I was just... I came to see Ava. I wanted to see how the kid was doing.”
Damian walked forward with the slow, terrifying glide of an apex predator.
He didn't look at Julian.
He looked down at Ava, who was still clinging to Natalie’s sweater, her knuckles white with terror.
Then Damian’s eyes shifted to his younger brother.
“Marcus,” Damian whispered.
“Yes, sir.”
“Take my brother down to the wine cellar.”
Julian’s eyes stretched wide with hysterical panic.
“Damian, no! Wait! I didn't say anything! I swear to God, Damian, I was just talking to her! You can't lock me down there again!”
Marcus stepped forward, grabbing Julian by the collar and the elbow with the brutal, practiced efficiency of a bouncer handling a drunk.
Julian thrashed, his leather shoes slipping on the wet flagstones.
In his desperate struggle to pull away from Marcus’s iron grip, Julian’s heavy elbow swung backward violently.
CRACK.
His elbow struck one of the massive, floor-to-ceiling glass wall panes behind him.
A jagged, spiderweb fracture exploded across the glass with a terrifying, deafening pop that echoed like a gunshot through the enclosed room.
Ava let out a piercing, shattered shriek of pure sensory agony.
She collapsed to her knees, clutching her ears, curling into a ball as the high-pitched vibration of the cracking glass rang through the air.
Julian was dragged backward through the doors, his muffled screams fading down the stone corridor.
The room descended into a horrific reprise of the boutique.
The sharp scent of fractured tempered glass.
The vibration.
The chaos.
Natalie didn't look at Damian.
She didn't ask for permission.
She dropped to the flagstones instantly, pulling Ava’s trembling body against her chest, wrapping both arms around the little girl's head to muffle the ringing echoes of the shattered pane.
“I’m here, Ava,” Natalie hummed, rocking her slowly on the floor. “I’m here. Breathe with me. Smell the flower. Blow out the candle.”
Damian DeLuca stood in the center of the conservatory.
He watched the woman he had hired from a department store hold his shattered daughter against the cold stone floor, completely indifferent to the violence that had just unfolded around her.
Damian slowly walked over to the fractured pane of glass.
He reached out, his thumb pressing against the sharp, spiderwebbed crack until a single drop of crimson blood welled on his skin.
He turned back toward Natalie, his dark eyes burning with an ancient, terrifying fire.
“Now you know who my enemies are, Natalie,” Damian whispered, looking at the blood on his thumb.
“They don't just live in the shadows of the city.”
May you like
He looked down at his crying daughter, then straight into Natalie’s eyes.
“They share my blood.”
