Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Kitchen: Where is Emma?
Panic spiked sharply through my veins. I slipped quietly away from the roaring party, ignoring the drunken shouts and clinking glasses, and hurried up the sweeping curved staircase.
Every footstep felt heavy, weighted down by a sickening premonition. I pushed open the door to our master suite—the sprawling sanctuary I had designed specifically for Emma.
It was utterly empty. The bed was unmade, tossed with expensive silk garments that clearly belonged to Jennifer, not my wife. Our personal photographs had been ruthlessly cleared off the nightstands and replaced with framed pictures of my mother and sister. They had not only taken over my house; they had systematically erased Emma’s presence from our private life.
My jaw tightened until my teeth ached. I spun around on my heel, marched back down the stairs, and bypassed the main party room, stepping directly into the auxiliary service corridor.
Intercepting a young, nervous-looking catering server carrying an empty tray of appetizers, I blocked his path.
"Excuse me," I said, my voice low, controlled, and laced with an icy edge that made the kid flinch. "Where is Mrs. Emma?"
The young man blinked, looking entirely confused, as if trying to remember a foreign word. "Emma? Uh... I think she's out back, sir. Ms. Jennifer ordered her to clear out the catering mess and wash the pots."
The words hit my brain like a physical blow. The room seemed to tilt sideways.
"Jennifer had her doing what?" I demanded, my voice dropping an octave, vibrating with a dangerous intensity.
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The server swallowed hard, pointing a trembling finger toward the heavy swinging doors leading to the industrial outdoor scullery. "Out... out back by the service sinks, sir. She's been out there for hours."
I didn't wait to hear another word. I pushed through the heavy metal doors and stepped out into the humid Dallas afternoon air, walking straight toward the nightmare unfolding in my own backyard.
