Chapter 2 - THE SHADOW IN THE GREENHOUSE
Arthur managed to smuggle her into the old potting shed at the far edge of the estate before the morning groundskeepers arrived. His hands shook as he poured lukewarm water from a tin mug into her trembling, claw-like hands.
She drank like a dying animal, water spilling down her hollow throat and soaking into the rags of her crimson dress.
“What... what is your name?” Arthur whispered, glancing nervously toward the main house, where the chimneys were just beginning to puff white smoke against the grey autumn sky.
The woman closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath. When she opened them again, there was a flash of aristocratic pride in her sunken gaze that completely clashed with her desperate, feral appearance.
“My name is Catherine Rootes,” she said, her voice raspy from decades of disuse. “Rightful mistress of this house. And the woman currently sleeping in my bed upstairs... is a murderer.”
Arthur felt a cold sweat break out across his neck. Victor Rootes was a man whose influence spanned the entire eastern seaboard. Politicians courted him; judges dined at his table. To cross Victor was to invite financial and social annihilation.
“Mrs. Rootes,” Arthur stammered, “the official record... twenty-five years ago... the police said your car plunged off the cliff into Blackwood Bay. They found the wreckage. They found a body.”
Catherine let out a dry, hacking laugh that sounded like shards of glass breaking.
“A body?” she sneered. “Oh, they found a body, all right. A poor, unfortunate transient girl from the city docks whom Victor and his loyal henchman, Marcus Vance, dressed in my clothes, drugged, and shoved into my sports car before rolling it down the ravine. It was the perfect crime. A tragic accident. And Victor collected my family’s multi-million-dollar timber trust before the ink on my forged death certificate was even dry.”
Arthur stared at her, his mind reeling. The pieces of a dark, forgotten puzzle were violently snapping into place. The western wing of the estate—sealed off for decades under the excuse of structural decay. The locked basement doors that no one was ever allowed to approach. The rumors of midnight crying that the old servants used to whisper about before they were all mysteriously fired and replaced.
“Why now?” Arthur asked quietly. “Why didn't you escape sooner?”
Catherine gripped Arthur’s flannel sleeve with surprising strength, her fingernails digging into his skin.
“Because for twenty years, the lock was controlled from the outside. But last night... I heard a new sound in the courtyard. I heard the footsteps of a man who didn't belong to Victor’s inner circle.” Her gaze burned into Arthur’s soul. “You’re a good man, Arthur. I’ve watched you from my grate for three years, tending the roses with care. You are the only one who can help me bring the monster down.”
Before Arthur could answer, the sharp ring of a golf cart engine cut through the morning mist outside the shed.
“Arthur!” a voice bellowed across the lawn. It was Marcus Vance, Victor’s longtime estate manager and head of security. “Arthur, where the hell are you? Mr. Rootes wants the courtyard hedges trimmed before the morning inspection!”
Arthur’s heart slammed against his ribs. He looked from the door to Catherine, who shrank back into the deep shadows behind a stack of empty fertilizer bags.
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“Hide,” Arthur whispered. “Don’t make a sound.”
He grabbed his shears, pushed open the wooden door of the shed, and stepped out into the cold morning air, pulling the latch shut behind him just as Marcus Vance’s cart skidded to a halt on the gravel path.
