Chapter 3 - The Dressing Room Escape
The walk-in dressing room was large, windowless, and lined with rows of custom cedar wardrobes and glass-front shoe cases. It was a luxurious cage, and I had trapped myself inside.
Bang! Bang!
Two heavy pistol rounds punched straight through the center of the wooden door, splintering the panels and showering the designer clothes with wood shavings. Another few seconds of sustained impact, and the lock would completely fail.
My eyes darted frantically around the room. There was no second exit—no exterior window, no secret staircase. But there was the laundry chute.
A heavy-duty commercial metal laundry chute installed during the mansion's original construction, connecting the master suite directly to the industrial utility room in the basement. It was narrow, steep, and completely dark, designed for hauling heavy bedding down to the washroom. It was my only chance.
I didn't hesitate. I hoisted the hem of my silk gown, hiked up my dress, climbed onto the mahogany folding counter, and shoved my legs headfirst into the cold metal opening of the chute.
Thud!
The heavy dressing room door finally burst open behind me.
“Claire!” Miles yelled, stepping into the ruined closet, his footsteps crunching on broken glass.
I pushed off the edge with my hands just as a bullet ricocheted off the metal rim of the chute above my head. Gravity took over, and I dropped into the dark, spiraling metal tube, twisting and sliding downward at breakneck speed through the pitch-black core of the mansion.
The descent was a violent blur of friction, bruised elbows, and rushing air. I curled my arms tightly around my swollen stomach, protecting my unborn daughter as I spun down through the floors.
With a hard, breathless crash, I flew out the bottom opening of the chute, tumbling directly onto a pile of soft cotton linens in the basement utility room.
I gasped for air, coughing from the dust and adrenaline, my muscles screaming in protest. I scrambled to my feet, clutching my abdomen, and limped toward the heavy metal service door that led out to the back estate gardens.
The service door was unlocked. I threw it open and sprinted out into the freezing Greenwich night.
The December air hit my lungs like a wall of ice. Snow was beginning to fall in fat, silent flakes, dusting the manicured lawns and the rows of luxury sports cars parked along the circular driveway. High above me, the glowing windows of the ballroom echoed with the faint, cheerful sounds of a live jazz band and distant holiday laughter.
Nobody out here knew that a murder had just been attempted thirty feet above their heads.
I needed to reach the security gatehouse near the main entrance where the highway call box was located, or find my car parked in the lower lot. But as I rounded the corner of the greenhouse, the crunch of heavy boots on fresh snow made my blood run cold.
A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, sweeping across the garden hedge ten feet to my left.
“I know you’re out here, Claire,” Miles’s cold, echoing voice drifted through the falling snow. “You can't run. You’re pregnant, exhausted, and bleeding out in the snow. Just make it easy on yourself.”
I ducked behind a thick stone planter filled with frozen winter boxwood, pressing my hand over my mouth to muffle my heavy breathing. My pulse hammered in my ears. My left ankle throbbed from the fall down the laundry chute, and a sharp cramp twitched in my lower abdomen.
I was trapped in the middle of a winter garden, weaponless, freezing, and hunted by a professional killer.
Then, my frozen fingers brushed against my coat pocket. My phone.
I pulled it out with trembling hands. The screen was cracked from the fall, but the display lit up.
No cellular service. The thick stone walls of the basement and the sprawling estate jammer Miles had obviously activated had blocked outgoing signals.
Except for one thing: an emergency satellite text protocol my attorney Rebecca had set up on a secure local frequency.
With shaking, frost-bitten thumbs, I tapped out a single message: “BASEMENT GARDEN. MILES HAS A GUN. SEND FEDERALS NOW.”
I hit send. The screen showed a spinning loading wheel, then flashed a tiny green checkmark: SENT.
A second later, the flashlight beam swept across the stone planter, blinding me with its harsh glare.
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“Found you,” Miles whispered.
He stepped around the edge of the boxwood hedge, holding the suppressed Walther PPK aimed right at my head, a cruel, victorious smile twisting his face in the pale moonlight.
