Chapter 4 - The House on Oakridge Lane
The iron gates of the Prescott estate on Oakridge Lane stood wide open, a stark contrast to the imposing, locked barrier that had kept unwelcome visitors out for three decades. A lone Mecklenburg County sheriff’s cruiser sat idling in the circular driveway, its blue lights reflecting off the immaculate white pillars of the neoclassical mansion.
As my car pulled up behind the cruiser, I looked over at Emily. She sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the sprawling property where she had spent the last two years walking on eggshells, terrified of making a sound that might anger Ethan or displease his mother.
"Do you want to go inside, or should I have the federal agents pack your things?" I asked gently.
Emily took a deep breath, her fingers tightening around the strap of her canvas bag. "I want to go inside, Mom. I want to see my old paintbrushes in the studio. I want to prove to myself that this house doesn't own me anymore."
"Then we go together," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt.
We walked up the wide stone steps side by side. The heavy double mahogany doors were unlocked—left ajar by the search teams who had spent the last several hours tearing through the mansion’s private offices and subterranean vaults.
Inside, the grand foyer was dead quiet. The massive crystal chandelier cast a cold, static light over the marble floor. On the velvet-upholstered bench near the entrance sat a half-packed leather suitcase belonging to Margaret—proof of how quickly their untouchable world had collapsed.
"Mrs. Hart? And Miss Emily?"
We turned to see a middle-aged woman in a housekeeper’s uniform stepping out of the hallway leading to the kitchens, holding a small cardboard box filled with personal trinkets. It was Rosa, who had always slipped Emily an extra cup of chamomile tea whenever Ethan was traveling on his so-called 'business trips.'
"Rosa," Emily breathed, rushing forward to hug the older woman. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, child, just packing my things before the marshals lock the estate down," Rosa whispered, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. "I am so sorry I couldn't help you more when they locked you in that guesthouse. Mr. Ethan... he threatened to fire my son from his job if I opened the door."
"You don't need to apologize to anyone, Rosa," I said, stepping up to them and placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Your testimony about the guesthouse lock mechanism is already logged with the federal investigators. You did the right thing by staying safe."
Rosa nodded gratefully, clutching her box tighter. "If there is anything else I can do to help put those monsters away, you call me."
As Rosa walked out toward the front gates, Emily and I began walking down the long corridor toward the east wing where her art studio was located. But as we passed the double doors of Ethan’s private study, I noticed something odd.
The heavy oak door was ajar, and a small, blinking red light was pulsing from beneath the Persian rug near the mahogany writing desk.
I held up a hand, motioning for Emily to stay back. I stepped cautiously into the study, my eyes scanning the ransacked room—overturned filing cabinets, shredded documents scattered across the floor, and empty safe doors hanging wide open.
I crouched down beside the desk and pulled back the edge of the Persian rug.
Flush against the hardwood floor was a concealed wall safe that the federal search teams had clearly missed—its digital keypad glowing faintly in the dim light, protected by a secondary biometric lock that hadn't been wiped.
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And taped directly to the top of the safe was a printed photograph of me in my dress uniform, with a single, handwritten note scrawled across my face in black permanent marker: The Colonel thinks she's untouchable too.
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