Chapter 10: The Guest House

The gravel of the courtyard crunched beneath my feet, each step echoing like a gunshot in the pristine quiet of the estate. The guest house loomed ahead, a smaller, darker echo of the main manor. The blinds were drawn tight, sealing it like a tomb.

I checked my watch. 10:45 AM. The nurse, a sturdy woman named Greta who smelled perpetually of antiseptic and disapproval, usually took her break now. If I timed it right, I could slip in under the guise of delivering the Egyptian cotton sheets Eleanor had ordered.

I adjusted the stack of linens in my arms, hiding the tremor in my hands. "Just dropping off laundry," I rehearsed under my breath. "Just being helpful."

I reached the front door. Locked.

I tried the handle again, jiggling it. It was a heavy brass lever, cold to the touch. Usually, during the day, this door was unlatched to allow the staff access.

"Can I help you, Mrs. Vane?"

I jumped, nearly dropping the sheets. Greta was standing behind the screen door, her face a pale oval in the mesh. I hadn't heard her approach.

"Greta! You startled me." I forced a bright, brittle smile. "I brought the new linens. Eleanor insisted they be changed today."

Greta didn't open the door. She just stared at me, her eyes flat and unreadable. "I didn't receive any instructions about linens."

"Oh, you know Eleanor," I laughed, shifting the weight of the sheets. "She probably told Richard to tell you and he forgot. He forgets everything these days."

Greta didn't smile back. "Miss Catherine is resting. She had a difficult night."

"I know. I was at dinner." I leaned in, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "That's actually why I'm here. I wanted to check on her. Woman to woman."

Greta hesitated. Her gaze flicked to the driveway, checking for Eleanor's car. The loyalty of the staff was bought, but fear was a stronger currency. And right now, she seemed unsure which Vane to fear more.

"Five minutes," she said finally, unlatching the door. "She's in the sunroom."

I stepped inside. The air was stiflingly warm, smelling of lavender and old paper. I dumped the sheets on a hall table and moved quickly toward the back of the house.

"Catherine?" I called out softly.

The sunroom was a misnomer; the heavy velvet drapes were pulled shut, blocking out the day. The only light came from the corner, a blue-white glow that illuminated the woman hunched over a desk.

Catherine.

She wasn't painting. She wasn't staring vacantly into space. She was typing.

Her fingers flew across a sleek, black keyboard, the rhythmic *clack-clack-clack* filling the room. She was sitting straight, her posture rigid and alert, nothing like the slumped, fragile creature from the dinner table.

She wore a headset, the microphone positioned near her lips.

"Transfer authorized," she murmured into the mic. Her voice was clear, precise. Professional. "Route it through the shell in Panama. Sequence code Alpha-Nine."

I stopped in the doorway, my breath caught in my throat. This wasn't a sick woman. This was a CEO.

She tapped a final key and sat back, sighing. Then she spun her chair around.

She saw me.

The transformation was instantaneous. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes widened into a caricature of fear, her mouth opened in a silent, confused 'O'. It was like watching a mask slide into place.

But she wasn't fast enough.

As she scrambled to minimize the window on the screen, her hand knocked the mouse. The monitor flared bright for a second before going dark.

In that second, I saw the logo on the active browser tab. It wasn't an art site. It wasn't a medical portal.

It was a palm tree silhouette against a gold coin.

*The Cayman Islands Bank. Private Client Services.*