Chapter 15: The Message Hidden

Breath froze in her throat as the door opened wider, the gentle creak of its hinges reaching into the quiet like a warning whisper. Her bare arms were touched by cold air, which raised goosebumps; the gloomy corridor beyond appeared darker than it ought to have been. But nobody could be found. None of a shadow. Not a good sound.

Just the stifling silence of the Beaumont manor at night, like if the walls themselves held their breath, so dense it felt to press against her skin. She moved carefully forward, the note still gripped in her fist. Her fingers twitched. Not from fear, Scar had learned not to dread shadows but from something else deeper. A strain that twisted at her spine told her something had changed. She was not visualizing the weight of invisible eyes. She dropped quickly to inspect the area under the door, then looked both sides of the hall. Not at all. Not one footprint on the soft carpet. Not much movement outside of the archways.

But there had been someone there. She softly closed the door and barely clicked the lock. She then slid the note into the warm warmth of the bedside lamp, her eyes once more studying the words as though they could alter. Look at the people you rely upon. Not one person living in this house wants you alive. The penmanship was exquisite, delicate, and slanted. Menial. Not based on Tucker's. Not Bernard's either. Someone who knew enough to reach her but not enough to sign their warning. They are anonymous. Her eyes narrow. Gabrielle, It must be. Or maybe someone employed by her.

Her words wrapped in sweetness and venom, her posture like that of a crowned serpent entering every room. It was reasonable to believe she had gone beyond caustic language in her detest. Scarlet slipped the message under a stack of silk scarves in the vanity drawer. She folded it. She would show Tucker the next morning. Not maybe. She no longer knew whether he would believe her; worse, accuse her of fabricating events to create drama. The idea stung less than it ought to have. She eased out of her gown, gently unzipping the fabric to let it drop to the floor like the weight of the evening slinking off her shoulders. Where Tucker had stroked her leg in the limo, her skin still tingled—a touch so short, so ghostly, it could have been imagined. But it hadn't been like that either.

She understood his touch as she understood the pain in her chest. She padded barefoot to the window, slid into a silk robe, and belted it tightly. Moonlight washed across the grounds outside. cold. Low. Void. That emotion, though, stayed with her. The awareness of being under observation. Of not being by myself. That evening, she slept quite lightly. Tossed between half-dreams in which doors creaked without a breeze and shadows whispered her name. She also felt she heard someone's low, calm, patient breathing outside her door shortly before morning. Still, nothing as she sat up and listened. Breakfast was as chilly and austere as usual the next morning. Tucker sat at the far end of the dining table, already buried in emails on his phone, his coffee unheeded.

Years of wielding power like a weapon have furrowed his brow naturally. Scarlet slid into her seat; the clatter of the silverware was more than required. Once, then again, she looked up at him, waiting for his eyes to cross hers. They not did. "Rough night?" she questioned. He turned not to look up. "Isn't it always?" I received a note. He stopped now, just momentarily, then started to browse once again. From whom? "Anonymous," she said, her voice even. Slipped under my door. Said I should not rely on everyone here. Someone wants me dead. His eyes then rose slowly and were unreadable. Not ice, cold steel is used. "You sure it wasn't among your small dramas?" She blinked. "You think I'm making this up? "I believe you are bored," he said, voice flat. And in this house, boredom usually sparks creativity. Her chest got tighter. "So I visualized the open door as well." The footfall? The sketch? Perhaps I even developed the penmanship.

He turned abruptly, the chair dragging across the marble. You want me to be a detective right now? Chase ghosts all around my land? Perhaps it was one of the employees attempting to terrify the newly hired housekeeper. Her voice fell to a whisper. "You think I haven't noticed how you keep your guards watching me more than anything else? His lips curved somewhat less than a smile. Scarlet, trust has to be earned. "Trust?" she said, standing up too. From the man who sends me over to his cousin for social slaughters like an ornament and parades me? Talk not about trust to me. Their looks locked for a moment, heat igniting the distance between them. Something basic flickering in his eyes, desire twisted with irritation. Then Tucker turned away, as though he knew he had come very near to losing control. "I have meetings," he said rigidly. "We'll discuss your enigmatic supporter later." Heart racing, Scarlet watched him go.

Then it never arrived. He headed for the city, and the house went back to its terrible silence. Searching for peace from the uneasiness burrowing beneath her skin, she meandered the halls. But now each shadow appeared to go farther. Every look from a maid, every bent head of a guard, seemed to be laden with secrets. She went to the library, a huge two-level chamber of books and history tucked away in the east wing at midday. It smelled like cedar and dust, and the only sound came from the gentle groan of old floors under her heels. Ascending the spiral stairway toward the higher shelves, she stopped halfway up. One envelope was hidden between two legal book volumes. Her name, Scarlet, was written in the same slanted hand as last night's note. Her blood cooled.

She grabbed the envelope and opened it cautiously. Not notes this time. One picture alone. Tucker). Also a woman. not hers. a brunette. Towery. Comedy. Her arms encircling his neck, his lips brushing her ear. Possibly two, three years at most; the picture was ancient. Recent enough, nevertheless, to gut her. She looked at it, heart breaking with every second. She was unsure about the smile on his face or what stung more: his proximity to another woman. A smile she had not seen since the beach picture he had located in his research. The library doors moaned behind her. She twirled about. Nobody. Still, her instinct cried out once again. That crawling tension was the same that had followed her from the gala. She dropped the picture into her pocket and hurried down the stairs. Still, something had changed once more. This was not merely about spite. She was being toyed with by someone. Psychological conflict.

A shadow-based game. She waited that night. Light off behind her locked door; heart steady. The handle turned exactly at two in the morning. Soft; slow. Scarlet gasped for air. One shadow stayed outside the frosted glass. A figure. Tall Still. The handle then released. And the man vanished as well. She skipped waiting for Tucker when daylight broke. She yearned for responses. She would also acquire them both with and without his assistance.