Chapter 7: Returning to the Estate Grounds
The sun had long since dipped below the jagged tree line of the Westchester hills, plunging the narrow access roads surrounding the Sterling estate into absolute darkness. I crouched low behind a thick wall of rhododendron bushes just twenty yards from the automated service gate, the damp earth staining the knees of my faded jeans. Thomas had dropped me off a mile back, handing me a small metal flashlight and a pair of heavy-duty wire cutters before driving off into the fog. My fingers were trembling as I pulled the burner phone from my pocket, checking the screen for any missed signals or alerts. There were none. Arthur must have been trapped inside the main house under Victoria’s constant watch, unable to call even if he wanted to. I waited for the automated security patrol cruiser to pass by on its hourly sweep of the perimeter fence, its yellow headlights cutting erratic swathes through the dripping pine trees.
As the tail lights vanished around the bend toward the stables, I scrambled forward, slipping through a gap in the rusted chain-link fence where the property lines met the state forest. Every rustle of the wind sounded like a guard dog or a shouted warning, my pulse roaring in my ears like an oncoming train. I stayed off the paved driveways, moving silently across the damp grass and mulch beds until the massive stone facade of the mansion loomed above me like a sleeping beast. The blue illumination from the swimming pool cast long, eerie shadows across the flagstone patio where the terrifying events of the previous night had unfolded. The water in the pool was still, reflecting the pale moonlight like a sheet of hammered tin. I crept along the edge of the limestone coping, keeping my footsteps light and deliberate, heading straight for the pool pump house tucked away behind a screen of decorative ivy.
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The heavy wooden door of the pump house was locked with a standard brass padlock, but Thomas had told me about the rusted hinge on the side window. Working by the faint glow of my shielded flashlight, I wedged the flat edge of a pocket screwdriver into the rotting wooden frame and gave it a sharp, quiet twist. The latch gave way with a muffled pop, and I pushed the glass inward, slipping my upper body through the narrow opening and dropping silently onto the concrete floor inside. The room smelled of chlorine, ozone, and damp masonry, lined with electrical breaker boxes and digital monitoring equipment for the estate’s filtration systems. I pulled a small flash drive from my jacket pocket—another tool Thomas had provided—and walked over to the primary data logger unit mounted against the back wall. This machine didn't just control the pool filters; it maintained a secondary, unmonitored backup log of all security gate activations and exterior camera feeds independent of the main house server.
My heart skipped a beat as I plugged the drive into the USB port on the side of the console. The small LED light flickered red, then turned solid green as the device began downloading the raw data packets from the night before. I watched the progress bar crawl across the tiny monochrome screen, every second stretching out like an hour as I listened for footsteps outside in the garden. Just as the download hit ninety-nine percent, a sharp click echoed from the doorway outside the pump house. Someone was inserting a key into the brass padlock. Panic flared hot in my chest, leaving me trapped in the small, windowless room with nowhere to run. I ripped the flash drive from the port just as the door began to creak open, plunging myself into the absolute darkness behind a row of spare chemical drums.
