Chapter 6 - The Interrogation of the House Manager
-6-
The grand dining room of the Vale estate looked like a medieval courtroom under the harsh glare of the crystal chandelier. The massive mahogany table, usually reserved for quiet, solitary breakfasts or tense business meetings, was now bathed in an atmosphere of impending violence.
Mrs. Hargrove sat at the center of the table. Her posture was rigidly erect, her gray hair pinned with surgical precision, and her pearl brooch gleaming against her dark gray wool dress. She didn't look like a kidnapper or a conspirator; she looked like an aristocrat unjustly detained by ill-mannered peasants.
"This is completely absurd, Mr. Vale," Mrs. Hargrove said, her voice dripping with refined indignation. "Dragging me out of my quarters at three in the morning because some unverified vagrant girl claims she saw a ghost on the balcony? I have served this family for fifteen years. I was loyal to your late wife, God rest her soul, and I have managed this estate with absolute perfection."
Dominic sat at the head of the table. He hadn't put his gun away. It lay flat on the mahogany surface, right beside his coffee cup, gleaming darkly under the lights. He hadn't said a word for ten minutes, letting the terrifying silence do the interrogation for him.
Clara stood a few paces behind his right shoulder, holding the scrap of charcoal-gray wool she had found on the balcony.
"Fifteen years," Dominic finally spoke. His voice was frighteningly calm, stripped of all human emotion. "You were there when we moved in. You hired every single nanny who walked through those doors."
"Yes," Mrs. Hargrove replied smoothly, lifting her chin. "To ensure the household standards were maintained."
"And you made damn sure none of them lasted more than a few weeks," Dominic continued, his eyes locking onto hers with paralyzing intensity. "Every time a nanny got close to understanding why Noah was screaming—every time someone actually looked at the boy instead of medicating him—suddenly there was an 'accident,' or a violent outburst, or a resignation out of pure terror."
Mrs. Hargrove’s eyes flickered for a microsecond—just enough to betray a flash of calculation. "That child is disturbed, Mr. Vale. The entire staff knows it. He attacks everyone."
"He attacks people who wear charcoal gray wool," Clara interrupted, stepping forward and dropping the scrap of fabric directly onto the table in front of Mrs. Hargrove. "He doesn't bite random people, Mrs. Hargrove. He bites the people who smell like the north wing. He bites the people who were in the car the night his mother died."
Mrs. Hargrove didn't flinch at the fabric, but her lips tightened into a thin, bloodless line. She looked up at Clara with undisguised venom. "You are an interloper. A penniless beggar from Cicero who crawled through the service entrance three days ago. You know nothing about the tragedies that have befallen this family."
"Where is my son?" Dominic asked softly. He didn't raise his voice. He reached out and picked up the Sig Sauer, his thumb resting casually on the slide.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Mrs. Hargrove hissed.
Before Dominic could move, the heavy oak doors of the dining room swung open. One of the armed guards rushed in, looking pale and breathless, holding a heavy encrypted laptop.
"Boss," the guard panted, slamming the laptop onto the edge of the table and hitting a keystroke. "We traced the IP address of the security override used on the north wing firewall tonight. It wasn't an external hack. It was routed through the internal terminal in the basement archives."
Dominic stood up so fast his chair crashed backward onto the marble floor.
"Show me," Dominic commanded.
The guard tapped the keyboard. A security camera recording from the basement archives flickered on the screen. The timestamp read 2:05 AM—ten minutes before the balcony glass shattered.
On the screen, a figure in a dark coat walked up to the secure server rack, plugged in a flash drive, and downloaded the entire encrypted database of Dominic’s commercial empire, shipping routes, and offshore accounts.
Then, the figure turned around and looked directly into the fisheye security lens.
May you like
It wasn't Mrs. Hargrove.
It was Mason Vance, Dominic’s trusted chief of security and right-hand man for ten years—the man currently standing by the front gates with an assault rifle, supposedly hunting for the kidnappers.
