Chapter 6 - The Locked Door
That night, while the estate slept, Clara slipped out of her quarters. She was dressed in all black, holding a small, battery-operated flashlight and a set of lock picks she had smuggled into the house weeks ago.
Clara wasn't just a governess. She was an investigative journalist who had spent the last two years trying to expose Arthur Vance’s corrupt empire. She had taken this job undercover, hoping to find financial documents. She never expected to stumble into a murder cover-up.
She crept through the silent, cavernous halls toward the West Wing. The heavy oak door leading to Arthur’s private sanctuary was locked with a high-grade deadbolt.
Clara’s hands were steady as she worked the lock. Click.
She pushed the door open, slipping inside. The suite was immaculate, smelling of old paper and stale cigars. She moved toward the massive mahogany desk, shining her light across the papers. Nothing. Just standard contracts and legal jargon.
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But as she stepped back, her foot caught on the edge of a Persian rug. It was slightly bunched up. Clara pulled the rug back, revealing the pristine hardwood floor beneath.
She shined her light closely on the wood. There, trapped deep within the microscopic cracks of the floorboards, was a dark, rusted stain. Blood.
