Chapter 3
The cinematic, golden light of the chandeliers seemed to sharpen and focus entirely on the space beside the fireplace. Faye remained paralyzed for a fraction of a second, her chest heaving rapidly beneath the fitted black fabric of her lightly creased dress. She recognized the terrifying reality of what that sound meant.
"Excuse me, I need to check something," Faye whispered, her voice trembling as she quickly set her silver serving tray down on a nearby side table.
"What are you doing, girl?" the head butler hissed, suddenly appearing at her elbow. "You do not abandon your tray in the middle of a service. Miss Cross is already displeased with your appearance."
"Sir, please," Faye pleaded, her expressive eyes wide with rising panic. "There is a sound coming from the old storage cellar. Beneath the rug."
"Nonsense," the butler snapped dismissively, glancing nervously toward the head of the room where Lucian and Isabel were standing. "The cellar has been empty for months. It is probably just the pipes expanding in the cold. Do not cause a scene."
"It is not the pipes," Faye insisted, her gentle demeanor giving way to a fierce, protective urgency. "It sounds like a child."
"Are you out of your mind?" the butler demanded, his voice dropping into a harsh, threatening whisper. "Miss Cross assured the boss that Rosie is upstairs. If you interrupt this reception with wild accusations, you will be terminated immediately. Step away from the fireplace."
Faye looked across the grand salon. She saw Isabel standing beside Lucian, her emerald satin gown shimmering as she laughed at a donor's joke. The socialite's polished public smile was flawless, a mask of aristocratic composure designed to dismiss the trivial concerns of the working class. But Faye knew the monster hiding beneath the satin. She remembered the cruel, vindictive way Isabel had treated the little girl all week, constantly shooing her away and complaining about the burden of a stepchild.
Thump. Thump.
The sound came again, weaker this time, a tiny fist beating against heavy, unyielding wood.
Faye didn't think about her job. She didn't think about the dangerous syndicate men surrounding her. The maternal instinct to protect the innocent, round-cheeked toddler who always sought her out in the kitchens completely overrode her fear.
"I am sorry, sir," Faye stated, her American accent ringing with sudden, undeniable defiance. "But I have to look."
Before the butler could grab her arm, Faye dropped entirely to her knees on the polished marble floor. The movement was so abrupt and out of place that the nearest guests stopped their conversations, turning to stare at the disheveled maid kneeling beside the roaring fireplace.
Faye ignored them. Her hands, trembling with adrenaline, grabbed the thick, heavy fabric of the Christmas rug. With a desperate, forceful pull, she dragged the rug backward, exposing the polished floorboards beneath.
There, perfectly concealed in the architecture, was the heavy wooden floor hatch.
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"What is the meaning of this?" a capo demanded, stepping forward as the disruption rippled through the immediate crowd.
Faye did not answer. She stared in absolute horror at the heavy iron exterior bolt slid firmly into place across the hatch. The cellar could only be locked from the outside. Whoever was down there had been deliberately and maliciously confined in the dark, freezing space.
