Chapter 2 - The Missing Ledger
The mystery of the disappearing objects deepened by the end of that week. While Julian remained fixated on the quiet secrets of his past, Martin Doyle, the head of security, was rapidly losing his patience over the ongoing intrusions. Nothing of actual monetary value had been taken—no expensive watches, no cash left out on desks, no antique silver—yet items kept vanishing from secure rooms without a single trace of forced entry.
Martin called me into the security office late Thursday afternoon, looking exhausted as he pointed at a sprawling board covered in photographs of the missing items: the old train ticket, the matchbook, the cuff link, the cracked vinyl sleeve, and now, a small rusted key found missing from a desk drawer in the study.
"Whoever is doing this knows the house layout better than the blueprints do," Martin muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "They bypass the primary sensors, they don't trigger the silent alarms, and they only take junk."
"Junk to anyone else, maybe," I murmured, leaning closer to look at the photographs pinned to the corkboard. "Have you checked the staff logs? Anyone new?"
"No one new in six months," Martin sighed. "Which means it's someone on the inside who thinks they're invisible."
That night, sleep eluded me. The heavy silence of Corsini House always felt a bit too watchful, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Restless, I slipped out of my garage apartment and walked quietly toward the main house to grab a glass of water from the kitchen. The rain had started again, drumming a steady, melancholic rhythm against the glass panes of the conservatory.
As I passed the dark hallway leading to Julian’s private study, a faint sliver of light caught my eye.
The heavy mahogany door was cracked open by barely an inch.
I froze, my bare feet silent against the runner rug. I knew Julian kept late hours, often reviewing shipping manifests or security reports long after midnight, but the silence coming from the room felt different. It wasn't the sound of a man working; it was the tense, coiled stillness of someone waiting.
I crept closer, pressing my back against the wall beside the frame, peering cautiously through the narrow gap.
Julian was sitting at his massive oak desk, but he wasn't looking at paperwork. In his hands, he held the old vinyl sleeve that had vanished from the music room a week ago. He was running his thumb gently over the cracked corner, his face stripped of the cold, untouchable armor he wore around the rest of the world. In the dim lamplight, he looked profoundly, exhaustingly tired.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked beneath my foot—just a tiny, microscopic groan of old timber.
May you like
In a fraction of a second, Julian was out of his chair, the heavy office door swinging wide open with a sharp snap, his hand instantly darting inside his jacket. His dark eyes locked onto mine, hard and dangerous, before softening slightly when he realized it was only me standing in the hallway, wide-eyed and caught red-handed.
"Sadie," he breathed, his hand slowly relaxing away from his concealed holster. "What are you doing wandering the halls at two in the morning?"
