Chapter 9 - Shadows in the Master Suite
The interior of the house was pristine, dead quiet, and utterly devoid of the toxic, suffocating atmosphere that had defined my marriage for eight long years.
I walked slowly through the grand foyer, past the silent study where Adrian had stood with his leather belt, and climbed the sweeping staircase toward the master suite. Every room felt lighter, purged of the ghost of a man who had thought ownership was the same thing as love.
I pushed open the heavy double doors of the master bedroom.
The room was bathed in the soft, golden light of the late afternoon sun streaming through the panoramic windows overlooking the river. But as I stepped onto the plush hardwood floor, something subtle caught my eye.
A faint smudge of dust on the windowpane.
My instincts—honed by years of high-stakes corporate warfare and security training—instantly spiked. I stopped dead in my tracks, my senses hyper-alert.
The window leading out to the private second-story balcony was unlocked. Just a fraction of an inch, but enough to let in a thin whistle of the cold autumn wind.
Slowly, methodically, I reached into the hidden holster beneath my blazer, wrapping my fingers around the cold steel grip of my licensed firearm, clicking off the safety with a silent, practiced motion.
I stepped toward the balcony doors, my boots making zero sound against the carpet.
With a swift, fluid motion, I shoved the glass door wide open and stepped out onto the iron-railed terrace.
The balcony was empty.
Except for a single item resting in the center of the stone patio table.
It was a small, polished silver pocket watch—the exact same antique timepiece Julian Vance’s operative had brandished in the digital surveillance photo days earlier.
I approached the table slowly, keeping my weapon raised as I scanned the dense tree line bordering the property below. Nothing stirred in the brush, save for a few fallen leaves blowing across the grass.
I reached down and picked up the pocket watch. The crystal face was cracked down the middle. Inside, the tiny brass gears had been deliberately jammed with a small, folded piece of paper.
With my left hand, I pulled the paper free and unfolded it.
Scrawled across the page in jagged, black ink were words that made my blood run instantly cold:
May you like
You locked up my brother and seized my front lines, Mrs. Hart. But the syndicate doesn't negotiate with ghosts. Look out your front window.
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