Chapter 2 - The Locked Door
The staff cottage sat fifty yards from the main house, nestled against the slope of the hill beneath a canopy of dripping hemlocks. It was a modest, stone-and-timber structure originally built for the head gardener in the 1920s, now occupied by Marisol Vega and her daughter since Marisol had taken the position of head housekeeper eighteen months ago.
Nathaniel crossed the wet stone path without an umbrella, his dark wool robe soaked through within three steps, the cold wind biting into his collar. He didn't care. The brass key in his pocket felt heavy, like a piece of lead burning through the lining of his robe.
He reached the cottage porch and hammered his fist against the heavy oak door three times.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Inside, a light snapped on instantly—not the soft glow of a bedside lamp, but the harsh yellow glare of the overhead hall fixture. Footsteps scrambled across the hardwood floor, fast and panicked.
The deadbolt turned with a heavy, metallic clack, and the door swung open.
Marisol Vega stood in the frame wearing gray sweatpants and an oversized college sweatshirt, her dark hair falling loose across her shoulders. Her face was pale, stripped of its usual professional composure.
“Mr. Hail?” she breathed, staring at him in the driving rain. “What’s wrong? Is the security system—?”
“Lily is inside the main house,” Nathaniel interrupted. His voice was flat, devoid of inflection, which somehow made it more terrifying.
Marisol stared at him, her lips parting as if she hadn't understood English. “What?”
“She was sitting on the grand staircase. Singing.”
Marisol grabbed the wooden doorframe, her knuckles whitening. “That’s impossible.”
“I left her there five minutes ago.”
“No,” Marisol said, shaking her head rapidly, her voice rising in pitch. “No, Mr. Hail, that’s impossible. I checked her twenty minutes ago. She was asleep in her bed.”
“She was sleepwalking, Marisol. Or sleep-singing.”
“I locked the door,” Marisol said, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “I locked her bedroom door from the outside.”
Nathaniel’s expression narrowed, the investigator in him waking up behind his grief. “You lock her in her room?”
“Not with a deadbolt!” Marisol stepped back, pulling the door wider, gesturing frantically toward the hallway behind her. “A child-safety latch! High up on the frame where she can’t reach it. She sleepwalked once when she was three and wandered out toward the pool pump before I caught her. I haven’t taken chances since.”
Nathaniel stepped past her into the small, warm entryway of the cottage, water dripping from his robe onto the rag rug. “You didn't mention that security measure when you were vetted by my agency.”
“It’s a private family matter, Mr. Hail. It has nothing to do with housekeeping.”
“Show me.”
Marisol didn't argue. She turned on her bare heels and hurried down the short hallway to the back bedroom.
The door was white-paneled, identical to every other door in the cottage. At the very top of the frame, mounted six and a half feet off the floor, was a heavy brass swing-bar safety latch. The heavy metal arm was securely dropped into its receiver, locking the door from the outside.
Marisol reached up, unlatched it, and pushed the door open.
The room was bathed in the pale green glow of a nightlight shaped like a turtle. The twin bed was empty. The blue comforter was thrown back, bunched up near the footboard in a heap of discarded blankets.
The window above the radiator was closed, latched, and sealed with a heavy layer of exterior storm glass. There was no way out except the door.
Marisol stood in the center of the empty room, her hands trembling as she clutched the collar of her sweatshirt.
“She was here,” Marisol whispered, her voice cracking. “I kissed her forehead at midnight. I heard her breathing. I put the latch down myself.”
Nathaniel didn't answer. He reached into his robe pocket, pulled out the small brass key, and laid it on the edge of the white dresser next to a plastic hairbrush.
Marisol’s eyes dropped to it. She didn't touch it. She looked at it the way people look at a venomous snake curled on a welcome mat.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Grace’s,” Nathaniel said quietly. “Found it in Lily’s hand on the staircase.”
“Mr. Hail… my daughter has never been inside the east wing. She’s never even seen the family portrait gallery. You gave strict instructions when we moved in—the private family rooms on the second floor are strictly off-limits to the staff and their families.”
“I know what my instructions were,” Nathaniel said, his eyes fixed on the empty bed.
“Then how did she get out of a locked room, walk across a half-mile of estate grounds in her pajamas during a freezing rainstorm without triggering a single motion sensor on the terrace, and end up on your staircase holding a dead child’s toy?”
The silence in the small bedroom became absolute.
Outside, the wind slammed another sheet of rain against the glass, making the window frame groan in its casing.
May you like
Nathaniel turned slowly to look at Marisol, his gray eyes cold and steady.
“Because,” he said, “someone unlocked the door from the outside.”
