Chapter 3 - The Nursery Locked in TimeThe door creaked open, revealing Margaret Hale standing in the doorway.
She was still dressed in her charcoal cardigan, her silver hair pulled into a tight, severe bun. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the small room with a chilling, calculated composure. In her hand, she carried a silver tray with a pitcher of water and two clean glasses.
“Mr. Cole,” Margaret said, her voice smooth and entirely devoid of warmth. “I noticed the lights were on in the east wing. I was concerned. It is past two in the morning.”
Nathaniel stood up smoothly, stepping between Margaret and Clara, his shadow completely blocking Clara from view.
“I was inquiring about the child, Margaret,” Nathaniel replied, his voice slipping back into his cold, impenetrable executive mask. “She wandered into my study earlier.”
Margaret’s eyes flicked past Nathaniel’s shoulder, lingering on Clara with an uncomfortable, intense scrutiny.
“I apologize on behalf of the agency, sir,” Margaret said smoothly, setting the silver tray on a nearby side table. “I have already prepared the dismissal paperwork for Clara Reyes. Her presence here is clearly a distraction to your work. A car will arrive at six tomorrow morning to take her and the child off the property.”
Clara’s heart slammed against her ribs, but she kept her face completely blank.
Nathaniel didn't flinch. He adjusted his cufflinks with terrifying calm.
“That won't be necessary, Margaret,” Nathaniel said quietly. “I have decided to retain Clara. In fact, I am promoting her to personal estate manager. She will be assisting me directly with the reorganization of Eleanor’s archives.”
Margaret’s mask slipped for a fraction of a second. Her pupils dilated, her posture stiffening like a steel rod.
“Sir... Eleanor’s archives are private,” Margaret argued, her voice dropping an octave. “Your uncle Richard specifically instructed us not to disturb Eleanor’s personal belongings. It reopens old wounds for you—”
“My uncle Richard does not own this house, Margaret,” Nathaniel interrupted, stepping closer to her until he was looking down into her pale face. “I do. My wife’s belongings are my concern. You may go to bed now.”
Margaret looked at Nathaniel for three long, agonizing seconds. The silence in the hallway was suffocating.
“Of course, Mr. Cole,” Margaret purred softly, bowing her head. “Goodnight.”
She turned around and walked away, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor with the precise, rhythmic cadence of a ticking clock.
Nathaniel waited until her footsteps faded entirely down the long corridor before turning back to Clara.
“She’s reporting to Richard right now,” Clara whispered, panic lacing her tone. “If Richard knows I’m here... if he knows we’re looking for Eleanor’s journal...”
“Let her report,” Nathaniel growled, a cold, predatory smile touching his lips. “Richard thinks I’m a broken, grieving widow locked in a room. He thinks he’s already won the Cole Group. He has no idea who he’s dealing with.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy, antique brass key attached to a black ribbon—a key he had not touched in seven hundred and thirty days.
“Come with me,” Nathaniel said.
They walked silently up the grand grand staircase, avoiding the squeaky floorboards, ascending to the secluded third floor of the west wing.
At the very end of the carpeted hallway stood a heavy double oak door painted a soft, faded duck-egg blue. A brass plaque mounted on the center read: MAY’S ROOM.
Nathaniel’s hand hovered over the brass keyhole.
For two years, this door had been his personal nightmare. He had stood outside it a hundred times, paralyzed by a grief so absolute he couldn't bring himself to turn the key. Inside lay the crib he had built with his own hands, the wallpaper Eleanor had chosen, the soft stuffed toys waiting for a little girl who had died before breathing her first breath.
Clara reached out, gently placing her hand over his trembling knuckles.
“We’re doing this for Ellie, Nathaniel,” Clara whispered softly. “And for May.”
Nathaniel looked at her, drew a deep, jagged breath, and inserted the key.
CLICK.
The heavy lock turned.
Nathaniel pushed the door open.
The room smelled of faded lavender, old paint, and time frozen still. Moonlight poured through the high arched windows, illuminating a fairytale nursery wrapped in white dust sheets. A hand-carved wooden crib sat in the center of the room. Wall murals of ancient oak trees and flying birds stretched across the plaster walls.
Nathaniel stood in the doorway, his breath catching in his throat, a fresh tear trailing down his cheek.
Clara stepped into the room, her eyes sweeping over the murals.
“The secret place,” Clara murmured, walking directly toward the far wall where a grand mural of an ancient oak tree stretched from floor to ceiling. “When Ellie and I were little, we had a code. Whenever we hid our diaries from our aunt, we always hid them in the 'hollow of the oak tree'.”
Clara reached out, her fingers running over the painted bark of the oak tree near the bottom baseboards. She pressed down on a small carved knot in the wood.
Nothing happened.
She pressed harder, sliding her fingers along the edge of the wooden moulding.
SNAP.
A small hidden wooden panel, no larger than a hardcover book, popped open from the baseboard with a faint click.
May you like
Nathaniel rushed to her side, dropping to his knees.
Inside the dark recess lay a leather-bound journal tied with a faded ribbon, and a small silver USB flash drive stamped with the official seal of the Federal Audit Bureau.
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