Chapter 3 - The Locked Pantry
The utility pantry was windowless, smelling strongly of floor bleach, damp mops, and winter coats hanging in plastic garment bags. The heavy fire door clicked shut behind the guards, and the sound of the deadbolt sliding home confirmed I was completely sealed off from the rest of the world.
In the absolute darkness, my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
They had taken my phone. They had cut off my communication. Up on the second floor, Grant and Dr. Rowan were systematically erasing the evidence of an assault, preparing to frame Camille’s injuries as the self-inflicted wounds of an unstable, psychotic mother.
Think, I told myself, sliding down the cold concrete wall until I sat on the floor. Think like a security professional. Every fortress has a blind spot.
I ran my hands along the baseboards in the pitch black. The Devereaux mansion was an old estate—built in the 1920s, renovated three times, but retaining its original infrastructure in the service quarters. Behind the wall mounted next to the industrial shelving unit, I felt the familiar vibration of a metal air-conditioning duct.
Working with frantic, silent urgency, I used the metal zipper pull from my hidden backup pocket to unscrew the slotted screws holding the floor-level vent grate in place. The metal clinked softly against the tile.
I didn't fit easily—the opening was tight, designed for wiring and airflow rather than human escape—but desperation is a powerful solvent. I wriggled my shoulders into the dark, dusty shaft, crawling on my elbows through the metal labyrinth until I emerged into the back stairwell near the kitchen.
The house was deathly quiet. The storm outside had settled into a steady, freezing drizzle.
I crept up the back stairs, my bare feet making no sound on the polished wood, until I reached the service landing overlooking the grand foyer.
Down below, the front doors were wide open. Two local police officers stood in the hallway, talking quietly with Grant Holloway. Grant looked the picture of dignified, heart-broken despair, dabbing at the corner of his eye with a pristine linen handkerchief.
“I’m just so worried about the baby, Officer,” Grant was saying, his voice trembling with Emmy-worthy emotion. “She’s been off her medication for weeks. When the housekeeper brought up dinner, Camille had some kind of psychotic break, started throwing furniture, and when I tried to restrain her from jumping out the window, she struck herself against the wall.”
The older police officer nodded sympathetically, writing notes in a small black pad. “And where is the domestic employee now, Mr. Holloway?”
“Locked safely in the staff quarters,” Grant sighed. “She became entirely unhinged and tried to attack us both with a heavy chair. Dr. Rowan had to sedate my wife just to keep her from going into premature labor from the hysteria.”
Dr. Rowan stood near the stairs, looking calm and professional. “I’ve examined Mrs. Holloway upstairs, Officer. She is currently unresponsive due to severe exhaustion and acute psychosis. I’ve signed an emergency transport authorization for the psychiatric unit at St. Jude’s Memorial. It’s the only way to ensure the safety of the unborn child.”
My blood boiled. They were shipping her away. Once she was inside a private psychiatric facility under Dr. Rowan’s control, she would never be heard from again.
I needed proof. Real proof. Not just my word against a billionaire and a doctor.
I slipped silently past the top of the grand staircase, avoiding the sightlines of the police officers below, and made my way down the dark hallway toward the master suite.
The bedroom was empty, illuminated only by the gray light of the stormy night filtering through the tall windows. On the nightstand, beside Camille’s half-empty water glass, lay the amber medicine bottle.
I grabbed it, slipped it into my pocket, and then noticed something else glinting beneath the edge of the heavy oak dresser.
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It was Camille’s personal burner phone—an old, cheap prepaid model she kept hidden from Grant, used only to text her brother in secret.
I snatched it off the floor, tucked it safely inside my shirt, and ran toward the service stairs just as heavy footsteps echoed up the main corridor.
