Chapter 4 - THE FIRST WIFE’S ROOMJulian had kept his first wife’s room locked for four years.
Everyone in the mansion knew it, though no one spoke of it. The west tower bedroom remained untouched behind double mahogany doors. Fresh sheets were changed every month by Mrs. Vale, the oldest housekeeper, but no one slept there. No one sat there. No one opened the curtains unless instructed.
Her name had been Eleanor.
To Grace, she had existed only in photographs.
Eleanor Whitmore with soft brown hair. Eleanor laughing beside Julian at a charity tennis match. Eleanor holding newborn Oliver near a hospital window. Eleanor looking tired in later pictures, thinner, her smile less certain.
Celeste hated those photographs.
Grace had watched her order frames removed one by one until only the official family portrait remained in the downstairs gallery, and even there Eleanor stood like a ghost at the edge of the house that had replaced her.
After the message in Oliver’s room, Julian did something no one expected.
He unlocked Eleanor’s door.
Oliver refused to go in.
Grace understood. The child had been told too many frightening things about the dead to feel safe among their memories.
So Julian asked Grace to stay with him in the hallway while he entered alone.
Celeste had gone to her suite. Or pretended to.
Mr. Hargrove stood guard at the end of the corridor. Two lawyers were on the way. A child psychologist had been called. Julian’s mother, Beatrice Whitmore, had been notified and was flying in from Newport.
Still, the mansion felt unprotected.
Because danger did not always come from outside.
Sometimes it wore silk and knew the Wi-Fi password.
Grace sat on the floor beside Oliver. He leaned against her shoulder, exhausted.
“Was she nice?” he whispered.
“Your mother?”
He nodded.
Grace chose her words carefully. “I never met her. But everyone who loved her says she was gentle.”
“She left me.”
Grace’s heart twisted.
“No, sweetheart.”
“That’s what Celeste says. She says Mommy didn’t want to stay.”
Before Grace could answer, Julian appeared in the doorway.
He had heard.
His face looked older.
He knelt in front of his son. “Oliver, your mother did not leave because she wanted to. She was sick.”
Oliver stared at him. “Celeste said she ran away.”
Julian closed his eyes briefly. “Celeste lied.”
“Why?”
Julian looked toward Grace as if the answer might be too heavy for a child.
But children already carried what adults refused to name.
“Because she wanted you to feel alone,” Grace said softly.
Julian’s gaze returned to her.
There was pain in it, but not anger.
Oliver whispered, “Am I?”
“No,” Julian said. “Never again.”
The words should have comforted him.
Instead, Oliver looked terrified.
Promises had been used against him before.
Julian saw it and stood slowly, as if sudden movement might break something fragile.
“Grace,” he said, “come inside for a moment.”
She hesitated.
“Oliver can stay with Hargrove at the door.”
Oliver clutched her hand.
Grace looked down. “I’ll be right here.”
“You’ll come back?”
“Yes.”
She entered Eleanor’s room.
It smelled faintly of lavender and dust. Pale blue curtains framed rain-streaked windows. A white dressing table sat near the fireplace. On the nightstand, a book lay open as though Eleanor had stepped away and would return after tea.
Julian walked to the wardrobe.
“I found something missing,” he said.
Grace waited.
“My wife kept journals.”
He opened the top drawer. Empty.
“After she died, I packed some away. Left some here. I couldn’t read them then.” His jaw tightened. “I should have.”
Grace glanced around. “Celeste took them?”
“I don’t know.”
But he did know. They both did.
Julian moved to the desk and opened a hidden compartment beneath it. Inside was a small envelope, yellowed at the edges.
He stared at it like it might explode.
“What is it?” Grace asked.
“A letter from Eleanor’s sister.”
He opened it.
As he read, Grace watched the blood leave his face.
“What does it say?”
Julian’s voice was barely audible. “It says Eleanor was afraid someone was tampering with her medication.”
Grace felt the room shift.
“Who?”
He looked toward the door.
Neither of them said Celeste’s name.
But it filled the silence.
Julian folded the letter with careful hands. “Eleanor died before Celeste came into this house. Officially.”
Grace heard the word officially.
“Did they know each other?”
Julian did not answer immediately.
Then he said, “Celeste was my mother’s event consultant. She organized fundraisers for our foundation. She was around before Eleanor died.”
Grace thought of Celeste’s smile. Her knowledge of blind spots. Her confidence that Julian’s past could destroy him.
A terrible possibility unfolded.
“Sir,” Grace said carefully, “what if this didn’t start with Oliver?”
Julian looked at the missing journal drawer.
His expression changed into something colder than anger.
“What if it started with his mother?” he said.
A scream cut through the hallway.
Grace ran.
Oliver was standing near the stairwell, staring down at the foyer.
Below, Celeste stood with two police officers.
Her cheek bruise had darkened.
Her voice carried clearly up the marble staircase.
“That’s her,” Celeste said, pointing at Grace. “That maid attacked me and abducted my stepson.”
Oliver began to cry.
Grace froze at the top of the stairs.
Julian stepped beside her.
May you like
And for the first time since the nightmare began, Grace realized Celeste had stopped defending herself.
She had started attacking.
Related Stories
