Chapter 3 - The Cold Kitchen
Sophie didn't understand the silence.
She reached out and took my hand, her fingers small and warm against my freezing palm. "Mommy, the man isn't crying anymore," she murmured, pointing her small chin toward Vincent.
"Shh, baby," I whispered, pulling her gently against my hip and picking her up. Walter the rabbit swung from her small hand, his pink ribbon trailing against my apron. "We need to go downstairs now."
Vincent did not move to stop us, but his voice cut through the quiet before I reached the threshold.
"Clara."
I paused, my foot hovering over the parquet floor of the corridor. "Yes, Mr. Marlo?"
"Take Sophie to the garden pantry. Stay there until I come for you. Do not speak to Marco. Do not answer the house phones."
His tone was no longer that of a grieving brother. The cracks that had opened in his armor when Sophie played those three piano notes had sealed shut, replaced by an iron coldness that was far more terrifying than his tears.
"Mr. Moretti—" I started, slipping into old habits of deference.
"Marco is in the driveway," Vincent said flatly, his eyes fixed on the silver cassette player in his hand. "He has two men with him in the lead car. If he realizes Julian left a record, this house will not remain quiet for another ten minutes."
I felt a cold wave of sickness wash over my stomach. I clutched Sophie tighter against my ribs. "He’s been in our home every day for four years. He brought Sophie a stuffed bear when she was born."
"He brought her a bear so he had an excuse to inspect your quarters," Vincent replied, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Go to the pantry. Use the deadbolt on the interior door. If you hear anything on the stairs, do not open it for anyone except me."
I didn't argue. I turned and moved quickly down the back service staircase—the narrow, uncarpeted wooden steps used by the staff to avoid the main halls. Every creak of the old riser beneath my shoes sounded like a gunshot in my ears. Sophie buried her face in the crook of my neck, sensing the sudden spike in my adrenaline, her small arms wrapping around my throat.
The garden pantry was a windowless room built into the bedrock beneath the kitchen, originally used in the nineteenth century as a cold storage cellar for blocks of Hudson River ice. It had heavy oak doors, a iron drop-latch, and walls three feet thick.
I slipped inside, pulled the heavy door shut, and threw the iron deadbolt.
The darkness was near-total, saved only by a thin sliver of yellow light filtering under the door from the kitchen beyond. The air smelled of dried herbs, cured meats, and damp stone.
I sat down on an overturned wooden crate, setting Sophie on my lap. My phone was in my apron pocket—a cheap prepaid smartphone I used to coordinate grocery deliveries.
My hands shook so violently I could barely swipe the screen open.
There was one missed message. It had arrived at 5:35 AM—seven minutes before Sophie opened Julian’s door.
It was from an unknown number.
Clara. Don't let Vincent take the 6:00 AM car to Chicago. Check the blue box.
I stared at the screen, the blue light illuminating my pale face in the damp dark of the cellar.
The message hadn't come from a stranger. The syntax, the short, declarative sentences—it was the same phrasing used in three emails I had received over the past four years from an anonymous sender who periodically deposited small amounts of money into a trust account set up for Sophie’s medical insurance.
I had always assumed those deposits were from Julian’s estate, managed by his lawyers in secret.
Now, sitting in the cold stone pantry with my daughter breathing softly against my neck, a terrible realization crept into my mind.
Julian had not died alone in that car on the Taconic State Parkway.
And the man who sent that message knew Marco was going to kill Vincent before the plane ever left the tarmac at Teterboro.
Above us, through three feet of solid stone and oak flooring, came the muffled, heavy sound of a single door slamming shut in the main driveway.
Then came the footsteps.
May you like
Not Vincent’s light, disciplined stride.
Heavy, deliberate, two men walking fast down the service hallway directly above our heads.
