Chapter 3 - SECRETS OF THE MANSION
Z
Returning to Whitaker Manor felt completely different as the legal owner.
When the taxi pulled up to the wrought-iron gates, the grand stone mansion looked imposing under the overcast gray skies. Just three days ago, I had walked down this gravel driveway with my few belongings wrapped in a dish towel, discarded and humiliated. Now, the gates swung open for me.
Danny stared out the window, his jaw dropped. "Abuela... we're going to live here?"
"Yes, mijo," I said, though the words felt strange in my mouth. "We are."
As we stepped out of the car, Miguel was standing near the grand fountain, holding a pair of shears. When he saw me step out of the back seat, he froze. He set his tools down slowly and walked toward us, his weather-beaten face breaking into a wide, emotional smile.
"Marta?" Miguel whispered, looking at the taxicab driver unloading our small suitcases. "Is it true? The attorney called me an hour ago..."
"It’s true, Miguel," I said, stepping forward to give him a warm embrace. "Mr. Whitaker... he looked out for us."
"God is good," Miguel breathed, wiping a tear from his dusty cheek. Then, his smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of deep anxiety. He glanced around the manicured grounds, as if checking the trees for hidden eyes. "Marta... you need to be careful. Yesterday, after Julian threw you out, he spent hours in the basement. He was throwing things, breaking walls. He was looking for something."
My pulse quickened. "Looking for what?"
"I don't know," Miguel said, shaking his head. "He was screaming at someone on the phone. He said, 'If she finds the ledger, we're all going to prison.' Marta, Julian didn't just hate his father. He was terrified of him."
Julian's parting words at the law firm echoed in my mind: You don't know what's buried in that house, Marta.
I thanked Miguel and led Danny up the wide marble steps. Opening the front door with the heavy brass key felt surreal. The foyer was vast and quiet. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, painting colored geometric shapes on the polished hardwood floors. The house smelled faintly of lemon polish, old paper, and Mr. Whitaker’s favorite pipe tobacco.
For eighteen years, I had cleaned every square inch of this estate. I knew which floorboards creaked, which windows stuck in the summer, and where the dust accumulated fastest. But as I walked through the quiet hallways today, the mansion felt unfamiliar—like a sleeping giant holding its breath.
I spent the afternoon helping Danny set up his new bedroom in one of the second-floor guest suites. It was four times the size of his room at the apartment, complete with a private balcony overlooking the gardens. Watching him happily arrange his drawing books on a massive mahogany desk brought a sense of peace to my heart, but the underlying tension never truly left me.
By nightfall, a heavy thunderstorm rolled in from the coast. Rain lashed against the tall glass panes, and thunder rumbled low in the sky, shaking the floorboards.
After Danny went to sleep, I sat downstairs in Mr. Whitaker’s study, holding the framed photograph he had given me. I traced the edge of the picture frame. The handwritten letter from Mr. Whitaker sat on the desk beside a cup of chamomile tea. I picked up the letter and read the final paragraph once more—a paragraph I hadn't fully digested during the chaos at the lawyer's office.
"Marta, if you are reading this, it means I am gone and Julian has revealed his true nature. The estate is yours, but with it comes a grave responsibility. Julian did not act alone. He bound himself to men who operate in shadows—men who view this family's assets as their personal bank account. Protect the manor, Marta. Look beneath the surface of what seems ordinary. The key to your safety lies in what I left behind."
My breath hitched. Look beneath the surface of what seems ordinary.
I stood up and looked around the study. It was filled with ordinary things: rows of leather-bound encyclopedias, antique globe, oil paintings of Victorian landscapes, and heavy bronze statues.
Suddenly, a massive streak of lightning illuminated the room, followed almost instantly by a deafening crack of thunder. The lights flickered once, twice, and then vanished completely, plunging the mansion into total darkness.
The sudden silence was heavy. Outside, the rain beat wildly against the glass.
I reached into my pocket for my phone to turn on the flashlight, but before I could illuminate the screen, I froze.
Downstairs, coming from the direction of the basement, there was a sound.
Clang.
It was the heavy, metallic sound of iron striking concrete.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I stood motionless in the dark study, holding my breath, listening intently.
Thud. Clang.
Someone was inside the house.
I remembered Miguel’s warning: Julian was looking for something in the basement. Julian had keys to the service doors—or maybe he had forced his way in through the storm cellar.
My first instinct was to grab Danny and run out into the storm. But if I ran now, I would leave the house completely open to whatever Julian was searching for. Besides, where could we go in the middle of a torrential downpour without a car?
I carefully took off my shoes, moving softly in my thick woolen socks. Grabbing a heavy brass candlestick from the mantelpiece, I turned on my phone’s flashlight, keeping the light dimmed by covering the bulb with my fingers so only a narrow beam escaped.
I tiptoed down the long hallway toward the service kitchen, which led directly to the basement stairs. The air grew progressively colder as I approached the heavy oak door that led below. The door was slightly ajar. A faint, dancing light was visible through the crack.
Someone was down there with a flashlight.
I pressed my back against the cold wall, listening carefully.
"Where is it?!" a voice hissed. It wasn't Julian's voice. It was deeper, rougher, filled with a terrifying, raspy impatience. "He said it was down here! Check behind the boiler!"
"Shut up, Frank," a second voice growled. "If the housekeeper wakes up and calls the cops, we're done for. Julian said we have one hour before his attorney loses control of the situation."
"Julian is an idiot," the first man spat. "He let an old Mexican woman take forty million dollars out from under his nose. If we don't find the ledger tonight, Mr. Vance isn't just going to sue us—he's going to bury us."
My jaw tightened. Mr. Vance? Nathaniel Vance? My attorney?
No. That couldn't be right. Nathaniel had fought for me. Nathaniel had handed me the keys! Why would these men mention his name?
My mind spun into a dizzying vortex of confusion and fear. Was Nathaniel in on this? Was the entire legal battle just a charade?
Before I could process the thought, my foot bumped against a loose metal dustpan sitting near the top of the stairs.
CLATTER!
The sharp noise echoed down the concrete stairwell like a gunshot.
"What was that?!" the rough voice bellowed from below.
"Someone's up there! Get her!"
Panic erupted inside me. I didn't think; I ran. I bolted down the kitchen corridor, my heart exploding in my chest, the brass candlestick gripped tightly in my hand. Behind me, I heard the heavy basement door crash open, followed by the heavy, pounding footsteps of two men chasing me through the dark mansion.
"Stop right there!" one of them yelled.
I rounded the corner into the main hallway, heading straight for the stairs to get Danny. I couldn't let them near my grandson. But as I reached the foot of the grand staircase, a sudden blinding light caught me full in the face.
I recoiled, raising my arms to shield my eyes.
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Standing at the front entrance, illuminated by the headlights of a black SUV parked right on the front lawn, was Julian Whitaker. He held a heavy crowbar in his hand, his eyes wide, wild, and unhinged.
"Hello, Marta," Julian said, a terrifying, crooked smile spreading across his face. "Did you really think my father's ghost was going to protect you?"
