Chapter 2 - Secrets Under the Floorboards
"Lives here?" Adrian repeated, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He looked at Ellie, who was staring intently at her gray socks as if wishing the hardwood would swallow her whole. "Dad, have you lost your mind? You don't pick up stray cooks off the street and move them into a private estate!"
"She isn't a stray, and I haven't lost my mind—not completely, anyway," Walter muttered, shuffling toward the kitchen island and lowering himself gingerly onto a barstool. "The ceiling in her downtown apartment building collapsed last month. A major water main burst on the third floor, rained down through her kitchen, and condemned half the block. She was sleeping in her car behind the diner where she works."
Adrian’s gaze flicked back to Ellie. The pieces of the puzzle began to rearrange themselves in his mind, though they only grew more disturbing. "You sleep in your car? In November, in the Pacific Northwest?"
Ellie kept her eyes glued to the counter, her fingers nervously pleating the hem of her oversized sweater. "The shelter downtown was full, Mr. Mercer. And... and your father comes into the Rosewood Café every Tuesday and Thursday for decaf and pie. He noticed I looked tired. He offered the empty guest room above the carriage house. When I told him it was too much, he insisted I take the room down the hall from his study so I could help him with his physical therapy."
"And you just moved in? No background check, no lease, no consultation?" Adrian’s voice rose, carrying the sharp authority that usually made boardrooms fall silent.
"I didn't ask for charity," Ellie whispered, her voice suddenly acquiring a stubborn, steel edge that caught Adrian off guard. She finally raised her eyes, meeting his icy glare with a quiet, fierce dignity. "I cook, I clean, I manage his medication schedule, and I maintain the grounds. I work for every single bite of food I eat under this roof. If my presence offends your sense of corporate exclusivity, I will pack my bag and walk out into the rain this very second."
She turned on her heel with surprising speed, heading toward the back hallway where the guest bedrooms were located.
"Ellie, stop right there," Walter barked, slamming his palm against the counter with a surprising crack. "You are going nowhere. Adrian, if you chase her out into this storm, I swear to God I will pack my own bags and check into a dismal retirement home by midnight. Am I making myself crystal clear?"
Adrian stood frozen. He looked at his father’s flushed, stubborn face, then down at the simmering Dutch oven on the stove. The rich aroma of garlic and herbs filled the quiet kitchen, wrapping around him like an unwelcome ghost of the past. He let out a long, slow breath, running a hand through his dark hair.
"Fine," Adrian muttered, his voice dropping an octave. "She stays. For now. But tomorrow morning, we are having a serious conversation about property liability and boundaries."
Ellie paused down the hall, her silhouette framed by the dim overhead light. She didn't say thank you. She simply disappeared into the guest wing, the soft click of a closing door echoing through the large house.
That night, sleep eluded Adrian. Around 2:00 AM, driven by a dull ache in his shoulder from jet lag, he padded quietly down the stairs in his stocking feet to grab a glass of water. As he passed the basement door—a heavy oak panel that usually remained locked and bolted—he noticed a thin sliver of golden light spilling out from beneath the crack.
Frowning, Adrian stopped. The basement was supposed to be completely empty, save for old furniture, winter tires, and boxes of seasonal decorations.
He gripped the brass handle, turned it silently, and pushed the door open.
A narrow flight of wooden stairs led down into the subterranean darkness. From the bottom came the muffled sound of a low, rhythmic scratching noise, accompanied by the distinct smell of wood varnish, metal shavings, and industrial glue.
Adrian descended step by cautious step, his heart hammering against his ribs. At the bottom of the stairs, hidden behind a stack of canvas drop cloths, was a makeshift workshop.
And sitting at a battered wooden workbench, illuminated by a harsh desk lamp, was Ellie.
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She had shed the oversized sweater, wearing only a fitted black t-shirt. Her arms were dusted with fine sawdust, and a pair of magnifying glasses was perched precariously on the bridge of her nose. In her hands, she held an intricate, antique music box—one that Adrian knew intimately. It had belonged to his late wife, Emma. It was the music box that had supposedly been destroyed in the house fire three years ago, along with dozens of other priceless heirlooms.
Ellie was carefully soldering a tiny brass gear inside the mechanism, completely unaware that she was being watched.
