Chapter 2 - THE GOLD WATCH
The object lying beside the shattered glass wasn’t a weapon. It wasn’t a syringe or a threatening note.
It was a heavy, solid gold pocket watch.
My trembling fingers reached out, brushing the cold metal. I didn’t have to open it to know who it belonged to. The intricate eagle crest engraved on the casing was unmistakable. I had seen Tommy Marlow check this exact watch a dozen times a day, snapping the lid open with his thumb while barking orders at the staff.
Tommy had been in this room.
He had watched Malcolm Rook collapse, struggling for breath, and he had done nothing. Worse, he had stepped over him, accidentally dropping his precious watch in his haste to leave the scene of the crime.
A sharp gasp snapped my attention back to the man on the floor.
Malcolm’s eyes fluttered open. They were bloodshot, the dark brown irises clouded with pain. His massive, calloused hand suddenly shot out, gripping my wrist with terrifying strength. Even dying, the man was a force of nature.
“Don’t…” his voice was a wet, rattling wheeze. “Don’t call… them.”
“Mr. Rook,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “You’re dying. I have to call an ambulance. I have to—”
“No!” He gritted his teeth, a spasm of agony twisting his pale features. “Tommy… Tommy owns the cops in this district. The ambulance… will never make it to the hospital.”
The reality of his words crashed over me. If Tommy wanted Malcolm dead, handing him over to the paramedics was just finishing the job for him.
“Then what do I do?” I asked, panic making my voice crack. “I’m just a maid. I can’t save you.”
“The drawing,” Malcolm gasped, ignoring my panic. His grip tightened on my wrist, his fingernails digging into my skin. “Did he… find the drawing?”
I stared at him. A man with an empire that stretched across the state, a man who allegedly had millions buried in the walls, was bleeding out on his carpet, and he was asking about a picture?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said frantically.
“The fireplace,” he choked out, his eyes rolling back slightly. “Behind… the loose brick. Check it.”
Every instinct screamed at me to run down the back stairs and disappear into the rainy night. But the sheer desperation in the fearsome crime boss’s voice anchored me to the floor.
I crawled across the thick Persian rug toward the massive stone fireplace. The ashes were cold. I ran my fingers along the soot-stained masonry until a loose brick wobbled. I dug my nails into the crevice and pulled.
Behind the stone was a small, dark hollow. Inside was a piece of ordinary, folded construction paper.
I pulled it out and opened it. It was a child’s drawing, done in crude, bright crayons. It showed a small boy with blonde hair holding hands with a tall, dark-haired man. At the top, in clumsy, oversized letters, it read: Happy Birthday, Grandpa.
Malcolm Rook didn’t have a family. That was the first thing Mrs. Birch had told me. He’s a solitary man, she had said. No wife, no children, no vulnerabilities.
It was a lie. All of it was a lie.
Before I could ask him about the boy, the heavy wooden floorboards in the hallway creaked.
Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, and coming straight toward the forbidden room.
“He’s back,” Malcolm whispered, his eyes wide with a terror I never thought I’d see on a man like him. “Hide.”
“I can’t just leave you!”
“The closet,” he ordered, his voice suddenly sharp, carrying a fraction of his usual authority. “Take the drawing. Go!”
I scrambled backward, clutching the drawing and Tommy’s gold watch against my chest. I threw myself into the massive walk-in closet just as the brass doorknob turned.
I pulled the louvered doors shut, leaving only a tiny crack to see through. I held my breath, pressing my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound of my own terrified panting.
The bedroom door swung open.
Tommy Marlow stepped inside. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, perfectly dry, undisturbed by the raging storm outside. But it was the person walking in behind him that made my blood freeze in my veins.
Mrs. Birch.
The strict, rule-abiding head housekeeper stood beside Tommy, her hands neatly folded in front of her gray apron. Her face was expressionless.
“He was right here,” Tommy snarled, staring at the empty space on the carpet where Malcolm had just been lying.
Wait. Empty space?
I blinked, peering harder through the slats. Malcolm was gone. In the five seconds it had taken me to hide, the massive, dying man had completely vanished from the floor.
“He couldn’t have gone far, Mr. Marlow,” Mrs. Birch said. Her voice was calm, completely devoid of the shock she should be feeling at finding a crime scene. “The poison acts quickly. He’s likely dragging himself toward the servant stairs.”
She knew. Mrs. Birch was in on it.
Tommy kicked the shattered glass across the room. “He’s a stubborn old bastard. I knew I should have just put a bullet in his head. Find him, Birch. And find the kid’s paperwork. If he managed to sign the trust over to the brat before the poison hit, this whole night was for nothing.”
Mrs. Birch nodded curtly. “And the staff?”
Tommy’s eyes narrowed into dark, murderous slits. He pulled a heavy, suppressed pistol from his jacket.
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“Lock the estate down. Nobody leaves. Especially that new maid. I saw her mop bucket in the hall. If she saw anything, she doesn't leave this house alive.”
Tommy turned toward the closet. His boots thudded softly on the carpet as he walked directly toward the louvered doors where I was hiding. He raised a hand, his fingers closing around the handle.
