Chapter 10: Return to the Lion's Den
Emma couldn't take the van back; every cop in the state would be looking for it. Instead, she woke up her neighbor, a grumpy mechanic named Sal, and paid him three hundred dollars in crumpled tips to borrow his rusted, unremarkable 1998 Honda Civic.
She left Ethan safely locked in the apartment with Sal’s massive rottweiler sitting guard at the door. Sal didn't ask questions; he just took the money and racked his shotgun.
By 4:30 AM, Emma was driving back up the winding, forested roads toward the Sterling estate. The lavish party was over. The caterers were gone, the guests had vanished, and the massive mansion sat eerily quiet against the pre-dawn sky, guarded only by Isabella's private mercenaries.
Emma parked a mile down the road and hiked through the dense, muddy woods. She was wearing her dark winter coat, blending into the shadows of the towering pine trees. She reached the perimeter wall, bypassing the main gates and heading for the old greenhouse on the east wing.
As a housekeeper, Emma knew the mansion's blind spots better than any security team. The camera pointing at the greenhouse had been broken for three weeks—she had submitted the maintenance request herself.
She scaled the stone wall, dropping silently into the soft earth of the garden. She crept toward the servant entrance, clutching a heavy iron crowbar she had borrowed from Sal’s toolbox.
Suddenly, a flashlight beam swept across the lawn.
Emma dove behind a row of sculpted hedges. Heavy boots crunched on the gravel path. Two of Isabella’s mercenaries were patrolling the perimeter, speaking in low, clipped voices.
"The boss wants it done before sunrise," one man grunted. "Did they find the maid?"
"No. Cops found the van abandoned in Queens. Doesn't matter. By the time they figure it out, the old man will be dead, the money will be wired, and we'll be on a private jet out of Teterboro."
Emma held her breath, gripping the cold iron of the crowbar. The men passed by, their footsteps fading toward the front gates.
She had less than an hour.
Emma slipped out from the hedges, jammed her key into the servant’s entrance, and slipped back into the quiet, dark belly of the mansion. The grand ballroom, just hours ago filled with laughter and crystal, now felt like a mausoleum.
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She bypassed the stairs and headed straight for the dumbwaiter in the kitchen—a cramped, medieval contraption used for sending hot meals to the master suite. Emma forced the doors open, contorted her body into the small wooden box, and grabbed the thick, greasy ropes.
Hand over hand, she hoisted herself up through the walls of the mansion, inching closer to the third floor. Closer to the monster in the ivory dress. Closer to saving the only family Ethan had left.
