Chapter 2 - THE SNAKE IN THE GARDEN
The gatehouse smelled of dry pine, old paper, and the damp limestone of the surrounding sea wall. It was a two-story stone structure positioned fifty yards from the main mansion, nestled between the pine forest and the iron gates that guarded the estate’s perimeter.
I sat on the edge of a narrow iron bed frame, the corded phone receiver pressed tightly against my right ear.
“Rosie?” Marcus’s voice was sleep-heavy and thin through the static of the line. “Where are you? It’s past nine. Biscuit keeps whining at the door.”
“I’m sorry, Marc,” I swallowed the lump in my throat, staring out the leaded glass window toward the black waters of the harbor. “The family I’m cleaning for... they offered me a full-time residential position. Caretaking. It pays three times what the agency gave me.”
“Are you okay? You sound weird.”
“I’m just tired. Did you eat the leftover stew?”
“Yeah. Rosie... another letter came today. From the county sheriff. It has a red stamp on it.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes. The eviction was moving faster than I thought. “Don't open it. Put it under the microwave. I’ll transfer money to your account tomorrow morning. Go to sleep, Marcus. Lock the front door.”
“Okay. Call me tomorrow?”
“I will. I love you.”
I hung up the receiver and let my head drop back against the stone wall. Titan was lying on a braided wool rug at the foot of the bed, his head rested on his paws, watching me with alert, unblinking eyes. The white bandage around his torso was spotless.
At five thirty in the morning, the heavy brass knocker on the front door clattered twice.
I started, reaching instinctually for the heavy brass lamp on the nightstand. Titan didn't bark; he simply stood up, his ears pulled back, his stance rigid.
I opened the door three inches, keeping the heavy iron security chain engaged.
An elderly woman stood on the porch. She was short, barely five feet tall, dressed in a impeccably tailored black silk dress with a lace shawl pinned across her shoulders by an antique diamond brooch. Her gray hair was pulled back into a tight, flawless bun. She held a silver tray bearing a porcelain coffee pot, two cups, a plate of warm Italian bread, and a small jar of dark honey. Behind her stood a towering bodyguard holding a neat stack of folded blue cotton clothing.
“Unchain the door, child,” the woman said in a crisp, sharp accent. “I am too old to drink coffee in the rain.”
I unhitched the chain and stepped back. The woman walked in without waiting for an invitation, her dark eyes sweeping over the rustic interior of the gatehouse with practiced evaluation. She set the tray down on the small wooden table.
“Out, Leo,” she said to the bodyguard without looking back. The man bowed his head slightly and stepped back onto the porch, closing the door behind him.
The old woman turned her focus to Titan. The dog didn't growl, but he didn't relax either. He sniffed the air, smelled the honey and the coffee, and slowly lowered himself back onto the rug.
“My name is Nonna Castellano,” she said, pouring dark, thick coffee into two small porcelain cups. She handed one to me. “My grandson tells me you sang to his demon.”
“I hummed,” I corrected, taking the cup. The heat warmed my numb fingers.
“In this house, my girl, humming to a wild beast is the exact same thing as performing a miracle.” Nonna Castellano took a small sip of her coffee, her sharp, dark eyes fixing on my face. “Dante is a man of few words and fewer attachments. He brought you here because he thinks you are useful.”
“He told me I was necessary.”
Nonna let out a short, dry laugh that sounded like dry leaves rustling across pavement. “Necessary. Yes. That is a word Dante uses when he doesn't want to admit he is desperate.”
She leaned across the table, her expression hardening, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening into stern ridges.
“Listen to me carefully, Rosalind. Dante did not claim you because he wants a pretty maid to sweep his floors. He claimed you because someone inside this estate is trying to tear this family apart from the root. They couldn't touch Dante, so they tried to destroy his dog—the only thing in this estate that guards his sleep. They want Titan dead so Dante is blind in his own home.”
A cold chill, entirely unrelated to the morning drafts, ran down my spine. “Who would do that?”
“If I knew,” Nonna said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, icy whisper, “their body would already be resting at the bottom of the bay inside a zinc container. Be careful which doors you open in this house, child. Some doors in the Castellano family only open inward. Once you cross the threshold, there is no stepping back.”
She stood up, brushed a speck of dust from her silk skirt, and gestured toward the blue clothes sitting on the armchair.
“Change your clothes. Dante wants you in the main house by seven. You are no longer on housecleaning duty. You are Titan’s handler now.”
For the next three days, I kept my head down and my eyes open.
My new routine was rigid. Every morning at six, I walked Titan through the fenced pine grove behind the gatehouse. His stitches were holding well, the inflammation subsiding under the daily regimen of antibiotics I managed to crush into his food. He followed me like a heavy, silent shadow. Whenever staff members passed us—the kitchen help, the groundskeepers, the stoic men in dark suits who patrolled the perimeter—Titan would move between them and me, his body stiffening until they were out of sight.
On the third morning, the sky was dark with the threat of an impending coastal storm. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and wet soil.
I stepped out of the gatehouse at six fifteen to retrieve Titan’s stainless-steel water bowl from the side porch.
Sitting right beside the doorstep was a second bowl. It was a chipped ceramic dish, heavy and dirty. Inside was a mound of raw ground beef.
Titan stepped out behind me, his snout twitching. He made a move toward the dish.
“Titan, stay!” I snapped, dropping my hand to block his chest.
He halted instantly, leaning his heavy weight against my legs.
I knelt down, keeping Titan behind me with my left arm. I didn't touch the meat with my bare hands. I pulled a wooden pen from my apron pocket and gently turned over the raw beef.
A sharp, sick-sweet smell wafted up—a distinct, chemically fragrant odor that made my stomach turn. Swirling in the pool of meat juices at the bottom of the bowl were tiny, iridescent greenish crystals that had not yet fully dissolved.
Ethylene glycol. Antifreeze.
It was an old, cruel trick. Dogs were attracted to the sweet taste; half a cup was enough to destroy their kidneys within twenty-four hours, causing an excruciating, agonizing death that looked like natural organ failure to an untrained eye.
My blood turned to ice water.
I wrapped the entire ceramic bowl in a heavy plastic trash bag, tied it securely, and walked to the stone balustrade overlooking the harbor. With all the strength in my arms, I heaved the weighted bag over the stone edge. It fell fifty feet through the gray mist, crashing into the churning, dark water below with a faint splash.
I turned back toward the main mansion, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The estate sat grand and silent against the dark clouds, its gray stone facade pockmarked with narrow arched windows. High up on the third floor—in the east wing, where the inner family’s private quarters were located—a heavy velvet curtain snapped shut.
Someone had been standing at the window. Someone had been watching to see if Titan would eat the meat.
I stood in the damp morning air, breathing through my nose, my fists clenched tightly at my sides.
They thought I was just a fired vet tech who folded laundry. They thought I was a helpless variable they could maneuver around or eliminate at their leisure.
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I looked down at Titan. He nudged my hand with his damp nose, looking up at me with his one good ear cocked forward, waiting for my signal.
“Come on, boy,” I whispered, my voice cold and hard. “Let's go find out who lives on the third floor.”
