Chapter 25 Peanut Butter
Valentina
I snap the folder shut and shove it back into the drawer, hands steady despite the sick swirl low in my stomach.
This isn’t the time to fall apart.
This is a long game. And the worst thing I could do now is panic.
My death won’t change anything. But staying alive? That’s how I burn him down.
Footsteps echo in the hall.
“Valentina?” Carol’s voice—distant, but getting closer.
Shit.
I move fast, returning the drawers to perfect order. No traces. No shifts in alignment. Just like I found them.
I close the credenza.
Ease the panel back open.
Slip behind the mirror.
Back into the dark.
Her voice floats again—closer this time, echoing through the walls. “Valentina, dear?”
I move fast but careful, retracing my path through the passageways until I find the one marked Pantry.
That’ll do.
I push it open and step into the back corner of a walk-in pantry—dark, cluttered, and blessedly empty. I sidestep around bulk storage bins and canned goods, fingers brushing the switch.
Light clicks on.
I swing the door open just wide enough for Carol to see in passing, then crouch down, pretending to study a bottom shelf lined with jars.
Peanut butter. Peanut butter. Where’s the stupid peanut butter?
“Valentina?”
I pop my head up.
“In here!” I call.
Carol steps into the kitchen doorway, hand pressed over her heart. “Dear, you gave me a fright. I’ve been calling for the last five minutes.”
“Sorry,” I say with a sheepish smile. “I got a weird craving. Wanted some peanut butter and didn’t have any in my personal pantry.”
She lets out a relieved sigh, stepping inside. “Oh, well we certainly have plenty of that. Crunchy or smooth?”
“Smooth, please,” I say, flashing her an innocent grin like I haven’t just discovered a sex trafficking ledger in her employer’s office.
She walks over, grabs a fresh jar off a high shelf, and hands it to me.
“There you are. But next time, let me know if you’re headed down here. Just in case.”
“Of course,” I nod. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”
“Matteo would have my head if he thought I lost you.”
I laugh lightly, twisting the cap of the peanut butter like that doesn’t punch me in the gut. “Can’t lose me that easy.”
She smiles, and I follow her out of the pantry, jar in hand, playing the perfect role all over again.
But behind my eyes?
A war has already begun.
I close the door behind me and slide the lock.
Then I slide down the door.
The peanut butter jar’s still in my hand. I stare at it for a second, then twist the lid and plunge a spoon straight in. No bread. No crackers. Just sugar and oil and a distraction.
I sit there on the floor, back against the cool wood, shoveling in creamy spoonfuls like it’s medicine. Because in a way, it is. Salt. Fat. Sanity.
After a few minutes, the silence starts getting louder again, so I force myself up and start pacing.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
The file I found replays in my mind like a heartbeat.
Names. Ages. Receipts.
Sixteen.
God.
I shove another bite into my mouth just to keep from screaming.
No. Don’t spiral. Not yet.
I know where the information is now. I know what drawer. What cabinet. What passage to take. And now I know exactly what I need.
I grab my new laptop and drop onto the couch, peanut butter still in hand, sticky spoon clenched between my teeth as I open a browser.
It’s late, but I’m already on edge—no reason not to lean into it.
I search for portable document scanners, and filter by size.
There. Small enough to fit in a purse. Looks like a wand. Quiet. Fast. Wireless. Rechargeable.
Perfect.
I add one to cart.
To avoid suspicion, I pad the order: wireless mouse, extra printer ink, business folders, some high-end stationary.
Carol will assume it’s all for “my work.”
And technically? She’s not wrong.
I click Buy Now, using the card Matteo linked to my suite account. Let him pay for the tools of his own undoing.
Then I sit back, the laptop warm in my lap and the spoon back in my mouth.
My mind is already ten steps ahead.
Now that I’ve seen the mirror?
The game has changed.
I’m halfway through picking throw pillows when it hits me.
The passage door.
I never closed it.
The peanut butter suddenly turns to paste in my mouth, and I bolt for the hallway. My suite is quiet—still warm from the fire Carol lit earlier—but my heart is ice in my chest.
I cross to the bookshelf.
Push it aside.
The panel’s cracked open, just like I left it.
Shit.
I close it gently and press my palm against the wall, as if it might confess to something.
Does Matteo know about these passages?
Has he ever been in my room when I wasn’t here?
I glance around, suddenly unsure of every shadow in the room. If he did use them—if he is using them—how would I know?
I need a way to block it. Something subtle. Non-suspicious.
Something heavy.
My mind ticks through options until I remember something Carol said during the tour.
“Decorate however you’d like, dear. This space is yours now. Buy anything you want.”
I return to my laptop, already pulling up a search.
Indoor garden statuary.
I scroll until something catches my eye: a dark stone gargoyle, crouched with wings tucked, fierce face frozen mid-snarl.
Gothic. A little eerie. And best of all? Ninety pounds.
Heavy enough that even if someone did try to push the panel open from the inside, it wouldn’t budge without tipping the thing—and if it fell? The sound would be unmistakable. And they’d have to exit through the front door.
Perfect.
I add it to cart.
Then I pad the order.
A few smaller figurines for shelves. A wrought iron wall sculpture. A mossy stone bowl for keys. Even a velvety reading blanket.
All of it cohesive. All of it tasteful.
All of it covering a single intention:
No one enters my room through that panel again. Not without me knowing.