Chapter 7: The Gathering Storm
The rain started around midnight, drumming a relentless, heavy rhythm against the leaded windows of the estate as we mapped out our next steps. I knew we couldn't rely solely on the stolen papers; Victoria's high-priced lawyers would find a loophole, claiming the documents were forged or illegally acquired. We needed living witnesses—staff members who had witnessed the intimidation, the unpaid wages, and the systematic abuse that kept the Sterling empire afloat.
"Mrs. Gable won't talk," Clara said, leaning over the desk as we reviewed a list of current estate employees. "She's too terrified of losing her pension. But what about Marcus? He's the head groundskeeper. He's worked here longer than anyone, and Victoria treats him just as badly as she treats the girls in the kitchen."
"Marcus," I repeated, tapping my pen against the polished wood. "Does he have access to the service entrance?"
"Yes. He lives in the cottage by the North Gate. If anyone knows where the hidden financial ledgers are kept off-site, it's him. But getting him to risk his livelihood won't be easy."
"Leave that to me," I said, standing up and buttoning my black trench coat. "You stay here and lock the study door from the inside. Don't open it for anyone except me—not even if they call your name. I'm going down to the North Gate to have a quiet word with Marcus."
The descent through the silent manor felt like walking through a mausoleum. The crystal chandeliers in the grand ballroom were dark, casting eerie reflections across the polished marble floor where Victoria had humiliated Clara less than twenty-four hours ago. I slipped out through the side terrace doors, letting the cold rain wash over my face as I made my way across the sprawling gravel drive toward the gardener's cottage.
The light in Marcus's window was a faint yellow glow cutting through the storm. I knocked twice—a sharp, deliberate cadence—and waited. A moment later, heavy footsteps shuffled across the floorboards, and the wooden door creaked open an inch. Marcus peered out, his weather-beaten face tight with suspicion.
"We're closed," he muttered, starting to shut the door.
I placed my hand flat against the heavy oak, stopping it. "I'm not here to cause trouble, Marcus. I'm here about Elena Abbott. And about what happened to her twenty years ago."
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The old man froze. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking ghost-white in the porch light. For a long, tense second, neither of us spoke, the rain hissing against the grass between us. Then, slowly, Marcus pulled the door open wide.
"You'd better come inside, Mr. Vance," he said quietly, stepping back into the warmth of the small cottage. "It's time somebody finally heard the truth."
