Chapter 4 - Sarah’s Lockbox
Morning arrived over the Marino estate shrouded in heavy, gray autumn fog.
Grace sat on the edge of the king-sized bed in the east wing guest suite, watching the rain streak the tall glass panes.
The room was luxurious, appointed with silk curtains, antique mahogany furnishings, and a marble fireplace.
Yet every door leading into the hallway was locked from the outside.
Whenever she turned the brass handle, the heavy lock clicked, and a low, warning cough came from the corridor.
Two armed guards had been standing watch outside her room since midnight.
At eight in the morning, the heavy deadbolt turned, and the door swung open.
Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper who had worked on the estate for forty years, walked in carrying a silver breakfast tray.
She was an austere, severe woman with tightly pinned silver hair and a perpetual frown.
She placed the tray on the dining table near the window without looking directly at Grace.
"Scrambled eggs, dry toast, and black tea," Mrs. Gable announced stiffly.
"Mister Cole instructed that you eat before he arrives."
Grace stood up from the bed, crossing the room to stand directly in front of the older woman.
"Mrs. Gable, look at me," Grace said, her voice quiet but intensely demanding.
The housekeeper kept her eyes averted, staring firmly at the lace tablecloth.
"Look at my face," Grace repeated, taking a step closer.
Mrs. Gable slowly lifted her chin, her pale gray eyes meeting Grace's gaze.
A sudden, unmistakable shudder passed through the older woman's shoulders, her lips parting in involuntary dread.
"You knew her, didn't you?" Grace asked softly.
"You knew Claire."
Mrs. Gable looked toward the open doorway, checking if the guards were listening in the hall.
"I am paid to manage the domestic staff, Miss Miller," Mrs. Gable whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
"I am not paid to remember things that were erased thirty years ago."
"She didn't burn in that cabin, did she?" Grace pressed, noticing the fear in the woman's eyes.
"My mother Sarah had a scar on her shoulder."
"A jagged, silver burn scar that she told me she got from a boiling kettle when she was five."
"Was that from the fire at the lake?"
Mrs. Gable stepped back, her hands wringing her white linen apron in obvious distress.
"Claire was a sweet girl," the housekeeper whispered, her voice barely carrying across the room.
"She loved playing the piano in the music room on Sunday afternoons."
"Then she fell in love with a man the family did not approve of."
"A boy from outside the organization."
"Mister Arthur went mad when he found out."
"He ordered the boy taken away, and Julian... Julian locked Claire in the attic suite for three months."
"When she escaped with that baby, Julian fired twenty servants in one morning."
"He made us repaint every room, burn all her clothes, and smash her piano with sledgehammers."
"He told us that if anyone ever spoke the name Claire inside this house again, they would be buried under the docks."
Before Grace could ask another question, heavy footsteps echoed outside the doorway.
Cole Marino stepped into the suite, his expression carved from dark granite.
He wore a charcoal suit without a tie, his collar open, revealing the tension corded in his neck.
"Leave us, Gable," Cole ordered without looking at the housekeeper.
Mrs. Gable nodded hastily, curtsying slightly before hurrying out the door, pulling it shut behind her.
Cole walked to the center of the room, looking at the untouched breakfast tray.
"You didn't eat," Cole observed.
"I don't have an appetite for prisoners' rations," Grace snapped back.
Cole pulled a thick manila folder from under his arm and tossed it onto the dining table.
"That is the file on your employment application, Grace."
"I had my security team audit the server logs of the domestic placement agency this morning."
"The agency didn't post that job publicly on the internet."
Grace frowned, stepping toward the table.
"What are you talking about? I saw the listing on a regional employment forum."
"It was an encrypted target ad," Cole said, his dark eyes boring into hers.
"It was programmed to appear only on devices operating within your specific zip code in Youngstown."
"An anonymous trust fund based in Zurich wired seventy-five thousand dollars to the agency three weeks ago."
"The wire transfer came with one explicit condition:"
"Grace Miller must be hired, vetted, and assigned directly to the Marino private residential quarters."
Grace felt the floor seem to drop beneath her feet.
"That's impossible," Grace stammered, shaking her head.
"I applied because my landlord was threatening to evict me."
"Someone paid seventy-five thousand dollars to walk you through my front gates, Grace."
"Someone who knew my grandfather was dying, someone who knew Arthur was frail enough to lose his composure."
"Did your mother leave anything behind when she died?"
Grace swallowed hard, remembering the battered steel lockbox hidden in her rental apartment.
"She left a strongbox," Grace admitted, her voice trembling.
"She made me swear never to open it unless I was in immediate danger of being arrested or killed."
"Where is it?" Cole demanded, stepping into her personal space.
"It's hidden in my apartment in Youngstown," Grace replied, looking up into his intense gaze.
"Inside the air vent beneath the kitchen floorboards."
Cole pulled his car keys from his trouser pocket.
May you like
"Get your coat, Grace."
"We are going to Youngstown."
