Chapter 3 - The Ghost on the Screen
At 9:15 PM, Grace walked into the master study of my 5th Avenue penthouse, carrying her standard yellow bucket and microfiber cloths.
Through a small earpiece hidden beneath her dark hair, I listened live from my hospital room, connected via a secure cell phone link Vance had set up.
"Keep your breathing steady, Grace," I whispered into the phone. "I'm listening."
Over the open line, I heard the faint clink of glass coming from the living room. Veronica was there, drinking my vintage scotch, laughing softly with someone else.
"Are you sure the doctor won't mess this up, Anthony?" Veronica's voice carried clearly across the line.
My cousin Anthony’s deep, gravelly laugh answered her. "Thorne has done this three times for the Chicago outfit, Veronica. By Friday morning, Dominic will be a tragic memory, and you and I will be running the board."
"What about his maid?" Veronica asked idly. "That quiet girl who cleans the study?"
"What about her?" Anthony dismissed. "She's a nobody. Give her two weeks' severance when we take over and throw her out."
In the study, Grace moved silently across the Persian rug. I heard the faint click of the painting swinging open, followed by the soft beep of the digital keypad as she entered the code: 11-24-88.
Click.
"I have the drive," Grace whispered breathlessly into her collar mic.
"Good," I instructed. "Now close the safe, lock the painting, and get—"
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the study creaked open.
"What are you doing in here?" Veronica's sharp, icy voice cut through the phone line like a razor.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I sat up in my hospital bed, my grip tightening on the receiver until my knuckles turned white. "Grace..." I breathed.
On the line, Grace didn't panic. Her voice remained remarkably calm, adopting the hesitant, slightly submissive tone of an underpaid employee.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Miss Hale," Grace said, the sound of her spray bottle clinking against her caddy. "I was just doing the Wednesday deep-clean on the mahogany desk and changing the wastebins."
A long, agonizing silence stretched across the line. I could hear Veronica's high heels clicking slowly across the hardwood floor toward Grace.
"Did you hear us talking?" Veronica asked, her voice dropping into a dangerous, suspicious quiet.
"Talking, ma'am?" Grace replied innocently. "I had my headphones in listening to the radio. I can come back tomorrow if you're busy."
Another pause. Then Veronica let out a cold, condescending sigh.
"Empty the trash and get out," Veronica sneered. "And don't touch the liquor cabinet."
"Yes, Miss Hale. Goodnight."
Ten minutes later, Grace walked out of the front entrance of the penthouse building, stepping out into the crisp autumn air of Manhattan.
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"I have it, Dominic," she whispered into the mic, her voice trembling slightly with adrenaline. "I'm coming back."
I let out a long breath, leaning my head against the wall. "You did incredible, Grace. Now it's my turn to prepare the stage."
