Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the West WingThe following three days passed in a haze of oppressive isolation.
Evelyn saw no one except Mrs. Gable, who delivered silent meals three times a day, and Mr. Vale, who visited briefly on the second morning to have her sign additional legal documents transferring various proxy rights to the Hawthorne Estate’s holding trust.
She refused to sign at first.
Mr. Vale had merely smiled—a cold, humorless expression. “You signed away your autonomy at the altar, Evelyn. Signing these papers simply ensures your father’s creditors don’t suddenly ‘find’ another loophole. Cooperate, and you will be comfortable. Resist, and you will find out how fragile your father’s new freedom really is.”
She signed.
The threat to her father had lost its absolute power, but the instinct to protect him—or at least keep him from dragging her deeper into hell—remained a heavy chain around her neck.
On the fourth night, the silence of the East Wing became unbearable.
Evelyn lay awake in the massive velvet bed, staring at the shadows dancing across the ceiling. Her mind raced back to the figure she had seen on the stone balcony. The mystery gnawed at her. Why would a ninety-year-old man on the verge of death be creeping around exterior stone ledges in the middle of a storm?
Slowly, she slid out of bed. She wore a simple silk nightgown and a pair of soft woolen slippers.
She crept over to the door. To her utter shock, when she tested the handle this time, it turned silently.
Mrs. Gable must have forgotten to engage the deadbolt from the outside.
Heart pounding against her ribs, Evelyn pushed the door open. The hallway outside was bathed in the pale, ethereal glow of moonlight filtering through high skylights. The Persian runners muffled her footsteps as she crept down the corridor toward the heavy double doors that separated the East Wing from the forbidden West Wing.
There were no guards posted outside. Hawthorne Manor relied on its isolation and reputation to keep people out—and apparently, to keep people in.
She reached the double doors and pushed. They swung open with a faint, oiled creak.
The West Wing smelled entirely different from her quarters. It didn't smell of dust and lavender. It smelled of aged paper, leather, gun oil, and expensive bourbon.
Rows of towering mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, interspersed with dark oil paintings of stern-faced men in Victorian waistcoats—ancestors of the Hawthorne dynasty.
Evelyn crept forward like a ghost, her bare feet silent on the parquet flooring.
As she approached the far end of the hallway—near the private study where Nathaniel had supposedly been resting—she noticed a sliver of warm light coming from beneath a heavy mahogany door.
And then, she heard a voice.
It wasn't the harsh, rattling wheeze of a dying old man.
It was deep, resonant, and unmistakably sharp.
“...if the SEC audit flags the Providence holdings, I want the secondary accounts moved to Zurich immediately,” the voice said firmly into a secure phone line. “Vale is handling the domestic front, but I want eyes on the Boston syndicate. They think the old man’s death makes them kings of the port. They’re about to find out how wrong they are.”
Evelyn froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
That isn't a dying ninety-year-old man, her mind screamed. That’s a man in his prime.
Driven by a mixture of shock, terror, and blinding curiosity, Evelyn took two quiet steps closer to the door, peering through the slight gap where the latch hadn't fully caught.
Inside the dimly lit study, a man stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows.
May you like
He had removed his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was rolled up at the forearms, revealing lean, heavily muscled arms. His hair was dark, thick, and combed back with absolute precision.
And sitting on the corner of the mahogany desk, resting beside a glass of amber whiskey and a black Glock, was the porcelain mask.
