Chapter 3: The Private Investigator
The morning sun offered no warmth as it filtered through the heavy velvet drapes of Andrew’s study. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, still wearing the wrinkled white dress shirt from the night before, an untouched glass of bourbon resting near his elbow. He hadn't slept a single second.
Every time he had closed his eyes, he saw the maid. He saw the nervous rubbing of her knuckles. He saw the specific, unconscious tuck of her hair behind her left ear. He heard the haunting, impossible melody of Sarah’s lullaby.
At 7:00 AM sharp, the heavy oak doors of the study opened. Marcus Vance stepped inside, bringing the faint smell of stale coffee and cheap cigarettes with him. Vance was a retired NYPD detective turned private investigator, a man whose discretion was as legendary as his exorbitant hourly rate.
"You look like hell, Andrew," Vance noted gruffly, taking a seat opposite the desk without being asked. He pulled a small notepad from his worn leather jacket. "Your message said it was an emergency. What kind of fire are we putting out today? Corporate leak? Blackmail?"
Andrew stared at the rim of his bourbon glass. "I need you to look into someone. One of the new domestic staff. Her name is Elena."
Vance raised an eyebrow, his pen pausing over the paper. "A maid? You dragged me out of bed at six in the morning to run a background check on a maid? Fire her and call an agency, Andy. That’s not my department."
"It’s not that simple, Marcus," Andrew said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. He finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot and haunted. "She knows things. Intimate things about my family. And yesterday... she displayed certain mannerisms. Behavioral tics."
"Tics? Like what?"
"Like my dead wife."
The silence in the study grew thick and suffocating. Vance slowly put his pen down, his cynical demeanor shifting into sharp, predatory focus. "Andrew... Sarah died six years ago. We both saw the police report from the highway patrol. The car went over the embankment and caught fire. You buried her ashes."
"I know what I buried," Andrew snapped, a sudden flash of anger breaking through his exhaustion. He stood up, pacing toward the window. "But I also know what I saw last night. I need you to find out exactly who this 'Elena' is. Where she came from before the agency placed her here. Every hospital record, every address, every single scrap of paper attached to her name."
Vance nodded slowly, realizing the gravity of his client's mental state. "Alright. I'll dig into the maid. Anything else?"
Andrew turned back, his silhouette dark against the morning light. "Pull the file on Sarah's accident. I want the original autopsy report from the county coroner. The one before the cremation order was signed. I need to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, whose remains are in that crypt."
"Consider it done," Vance said, slipping the notepad back into his jacket. "But Andrew... be careful. Grief does strange things to the mind. Don't start seeing ghosts just because you want them to be there."
As Vance slipped out the back entrance of the estate, the dynamic upstairs was shifting violently.
Victoria sat in the sunlit breakfast room, viciously stabbing a piece of melon with her silver fork. She was wearing a perfectly tailored silk robe, her blonde hair impeccably styled, but her eyes were frantic. Andrew had been cold and distant when she tried to speak to him that morning, dismissing her with a curt nod before locking himself in his study.
The boys, Leo and Max, sat across from her, staring silently at their oatmeal. They looked exhausted, but the raw terror from the night before had been replaced by a quiet, stubborn defiance.
"Boys, finish your breakfast," Victoria commanded, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. "The tailor is arriving at noon to fit your suits for the wedding."
Leo looked up, his jaw set. "When is the wedding?"
"Next month," Victoria lied smoothly. The date was originally set for next spring, but she had made the executive decision at 3:00 AM to bump it up. The ring on her finger suddenly felt very heavy, and the ground beneath her stilettos felt dangerously unstable. She needed to lock Andrew down, legally and permanently, before his fragile psyche fractured completely.
"Now," Victoria continued, dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin. "There are going to be some new rules in this house. Starting today, the domestic staff is strictly forbidden from entering the family wing unless I explicitly call for them. That includes the cleaning staff, the cooks, and most importantly, the new maid."
Max’s head snapped up, panic flashing in his young eyes. "But Elena—"
"Elena is an employee, Maximilian!" Victoria’s voice cracked like a whip, silencing the boy instantly. "She is paid to scrub floors, not to play mother. If I catch either of you speaking to her, she will be fired immediately. Do you understand me? I will throw her out onto the street myself."
The boys shrank back into their chairs, the threat landing with devastating effectiveness. They nodded silently.
Down in the basement, entirely unaware of the storm brewing above or the investigator digging into her non-existent past, Elena was handed a bucket of heavy lye soap and a stiff brush by the head housekeeper.
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"Miss Victoria’s orders," the housekeeper said, not meeting Elena's eyes. "You're off the family floors. You're to scrub the baseboards in the unused west wing. On your knees. All day."
Elena took the heavy bucket, the rough plastic handle digging into her palms. She understood the message loud and clear. She was being quarantined. She was being erased. But as she walked toward the dusty, abandoned corridors of the west wing, the phantom melody of the lullaby continued to loop in her mind, a quiet, stubborn spark in the terrifying darkness of her memory.
