Chapter 3 - THE INSPECTION
Marcus Vance looked like a man who enjoyed power and wore it like a tailored suit. In his late fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair slicked straight back and eyes as cold and grey as river stones, Marcus surveyed the gardens with an air of absolute ownership.
“You’re slow this morning, old man,” Marcus said, stepping down from the cart and adjusting his leather gloves.
“Just finishing up the west perimeter, Mr. Vance,” Arthur said, forcing his voice to remain steady while his palms sweated against the handles of his pruning shears. “Some of the boxwoods are choked out with deep roots.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes, walking slowly toward the west wall. He stopped just ten feet from the heavy steel grate Arthur had unbolted earlier that morning.
Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. He’ll see the broken padlock. He’ll see the freshly disturbed dirt.
Marcus kicked a stray clod of earth with the toe of his expensive Italian loafer. He looked down at the rusty grate. The padlock was gone, but Arthur had managed to push the heavy iron lid back into a semi-closed position before running to the shed.
“What happened here?” Marcus asked sharply, pointing his leather-gloved finger at the grate.
“Tree roots,” Arthur lied instantly, praying his voice didn't betray him. “The pressure from the old oak roots buckled the masonry around the vent last winter. I was just clearing the debris so it doesn't clog the drainage.”
Marcus stared at the grate for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, he turned his gaze back to Arthur.
“Mr. Rootes is hosting a dinner party tonight for the state governor and the board of directors,” Marcus said smoothly, though his eyes remained hard. “I don’t want any loose ends, Arthur. No unkempt lawns. No broken grates. And certainly... no unexpected disturbances on this property.”
“Everything will be spotless, Mr. Rootes—I mean, Mr. Vance,” Arthur corrected himself hastily.
A thin, dangerous smile touched the corner of Marcus’s mouth. “Good. Because Mr. Rootes is a very generous employer to those who keep his house in order. But he is... notoriously unforgiving to anyone who digs where they shouldn't.”
Marcus turned back to his golf cart, climbed in, and roared down the gravel driveway toward the main manor house.
Arthur exhaled a breath he felt he’d been holding for an hour. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and hurried back to the potting shed, throwing the wooden door open.
Catherine was sitting on an overturned bucket in the corner, her chest heaving, her eyes wild with adrenaline.
“He knows,” she whispered.
“He suspects,” Arthur corrected, locking the shed door from the inside. “But he doesn't know you’re here yet. We need a plan, Mrs. Rootes. We can’t hide you in a potting shed forever. The governor’s dinner is tonight. Half the estate security will be patrolling the grounds.”
Catherine stood up, walking slowly toward the small dirty window that looked out over the sprawling limestone mansion in the distance. The morning sun was hitting the glass conservatory where Victor Rootes sat, presumably sipping his imported coffee and reviewing corporate mergers.
“Tonight,” Catherine murmured, her voice dropping into a tone of chilling resolve. “Tonight, during the dinner party, when the house is full of rich, blind fools drinking his wine... we are going to pay my dear husband a visit.”
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“Are you insane?” Arthur hissed. “Victor has twenty armed guards on the perimeter!”
“Victor thinks I’m a ghost,” Catherine turned, her eyes flashing with a terrifying, beautiful fury. “And ghosts always make the best guests.”
