Chapter 4 - The Locked Pantry
They returned to the estate before sunset.
Nobody was allowed to leave.
Not cooks.
Not cleaners.
Not guards.
Not medical staff.
Everyone surrendered phones.
Every pantry was sealed.
Claire stood in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by frightened employees.
Nicholas entered.
“Who has access to my mother’s meals?”
Five hands rose.
Claire.
Rosa Vega.
Two kitchen assistants.
And the night cook.
Nicholas looked at Claire.
She rolled her eyes.
“I arrived yesterday.”
“I know.”
“Just making sure.”
Rosa stepped forward.
“I have served this family twenty-seven years.”
Nicholas’s expression softened slightly.
“I know.”
“You think I hurt Mrs. Caruso?”
“I think someone did.”
Rosa looked devastated.
Claire believed her.
Maybe that was foolish.
She had known Rosa less than forty-eight hours.
But grief had textures.
Rosa’s looked real.
Claire asked, “Who prepares Evelyn’s trays?”
“Different people.”
“Who chooses the silver?”
“The dining staff.”
“Who washes it?”
“Dish room.”
“Who stores it?”
Rosa pointed toward a cabinet.
Claire opened it.
Empty.
Nicholas frowned.
“Where is it?”
Rosa went pale.
“I don’t know.”
Marco entered.
“We bagged everything from upstairs.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
Claire shook her head.
“No. That cabinet should still contain unused pieces.”
Rosa looked alarmed.
“It was full yesterday.”
Claire turned.
Someone had removed the evidence after they discovered the residue.
Nicholas ordered the house searched.
An hour later, nothing.
Claire wandered into the older pantry behind the main kitchen.
Most shelves held rarely used serving dishes.
Copper molds.
Holiday china.
A ridiculous number of gravy boats.
Then she noticed dust.
Or rather, the absence of it.
One shelf had been disturbed.
She reached behind a stack of plates.
Her fingers touched fabric.
A cloth bag.
Inside were twelve silver spoons.
Claire’s heart jumped.
“Nicholas!”
No answer.
She stepped toward the door.
It slammed shut.
The lock clicked.
Claire froze.
“Very funny.”
Silence.
She grabbed the handle.
Locked.
“Hello?”
No answer.
Then she smelled something.
Gas?
No.
Cold air.
The pantry had once connected to a refrigerated storage room.
Someone had activated the old cooling system.
The temperature dropped quickly.
Claire banged on the door.
“HEY!”
Nothing.
She pulled out her phone.
No signal.
Of course.
Thick stone walls.
Old mansion.
Murder attempt.
Naturally.
Claire grabbed a heavy serving tray and struck the door.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
“NICHOLAS!”
Ten minutes passed.
Her fingers started hurting.
Fifteen.
The cold became painful.
Claire put on an old tablecloth like a shawl.
“This is stupid,” she muttered.
Talking kept panic away.
“My first real private-chef job and I’m murdered by a pantry. My obituary will be humiliating.”
She hit the door again.
The lights went out.
Claire stopped joking.
Darkness changed everything.
Her father had hated darkness during his final hospital stay.
Claire had slept beside him with the bathroom light on for eleven months.
Now she leaned against shelves and forced herself to breathe.
Not too fast.
Think.
There had to be another exit.
She felt along the walls.
Shelves.
Stone.
More shelves.
Then metal.
A vent.
Too small.
“Wonderful.”
She slid down the wall.
Her teeth began chattering.
Somewhere outside, Nicholas asked, “Where is Claire?”
Rosa looked around.
“She was here.”
“When?”
“Maybe twenty minutes ago.”
His face changed.
“Marco.”
Within ninety seconds, the mansion was searching.
Nicholas checked the guest room.
Empty.
The dining room.
Empty.
The east hall.
Nothing.
Then he entered the kitchen.
He stopped.
“Where’s the old pantry?”
Rosa pointed.
“Back there.”
Nicholas tried the door.
Locked.
“Claire!”
A faint sound came from inside.
Bang.
Bang.
Nicholas drew his gun and fired at the lock.
The door burst open.
Cold air rolled out.
Claire sat against the far wall wrapped in a tablecloth.
She looked up.
“You shot a door.”
Nicholas crossed the room in three strides.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m freezing.”
He pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her.
Then he lifted her.
Claire protested.
“I can walk.”
“I don’t care.”
“I am not small.”
“I noticed.”
Under different circumstances she might have slapped him.
Instead she laughed.
It came out shaky.
Nicholas carried her into the warm kitchen.
Claire could feel his heart pounding.
Too fast.
Not calm.
Not controlled.
He had been afraid.
For her.
The realization made something inside her shift.
Nicholas placed her on the counter.
“Who locked you in?”
“I didn’t see.”
“What were you doing?”
She pointed toward the pantry.
“Evidence.”
Marco retrieved the cloth bag.
The spoons were sent for testing.
Security footage answered the next question.
At 5:42 p.m., someone entered the pantry hallway.
Male.
Baseball cap.
Face turned away.
He opened the door after Claire entered.
Locked it.
Activated the cooling system.
Then disappeared through the service stairwell.
Marco froze the image.
Nicholas stared.
“That jacket.”
Claire looked.
“What?”
Nicholas zoomed in.
A Caruso family crest had been embroidered near the cuff.
Only family members received those jackets.
Marco whispered, “Boss.”
Nicholas looked toward him.
“I know.”
Claire asked, “Know what?”
Nicholas enlarged the image again.
The man lifted his hand toward his cap.
A ring became visible.
Gold.
Black stone.
Nicholas sat down slowly.
“That belonged to my grandfather.”
“Who has it now?”
Nobody answered.
Claire looked between them.
“Nicholas.”
He stared at the screen.
“My cousin Damian.”
Claire’s stomach dropped.
“The missing son?”
“Yes.”
“The hostage?”
Nicholas looked at her.
“The man who locked you inside that room was wearing Damian’s ring.”
Marco immediately began searching old footage.
At 7:11 p.m., one of the estate cameras caught the same figure exiting through a drainage tunnel beneath the garden.
Meaning Damian Caruso had been inside the estate.
Maybe voluntarily.
Maybe not.
Vincent was brought upstairs.
Nicholas showed him the image.
Vincent began crying.
“That’s Damian.”
“You’re certain?”
“My father gave him that ring when he graduated.”
Nicholas leaned across the table.
“Then explain why your kidnapped son is walking around my house.”
“I can’t.”
“You lied to me.”
“No.”
“You said they had him.”
“They do!”
“He just tried to kill Claire.”
Vincent stared.
“No.”
Claire spoke softly.
“Vincent.”
He looked at her.
“Did you ever hear Damian during those calls?”
“No.”
“See him live?”
Vincent hesitated.
“Videos.”
“Could they have been recorded?”
His face collapsed.
Claire knew the answer.
Nicholas stood.
“He wasn’t kidnapped.”
Vincent whispered, “No.”
“He used you.”
“No.”
“He convinced his own father he was being tortured so you’d poison my mother.”
“I didn’t poison her!”
“You helped.”
Vincent buried his face in his hands.
Then the front gates alarm sounded.
Marco checked his phone.
A vehicle was approaching.
“No authorization.”
Nicholas grabbed his weapon.
“Stop it.”
Marco listened to his radio.
Then his eyes widened.
“What?”
“The driver says he’s Damian Caruso.”
Vincent stood so quickly his chair fell.
Nicholas stared toward the window.
A black sedan stopped outside the mansion.
The rear door opened.
A man stumbled out.
Thin.
Blood covering his white shirt.
Vincent screamed his son’s name.
Damian collapsed onto the snow.
And before losing consciousness, he looked directly at Nicholas.
May you like
Then at Claire.
“Don’t trust my father.”
