Chapter 1 - The Ghost Boy
“The child of this house,” Ms. Sterling said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Leo. He is four years old, and he is not your concern. You clean the lower east wing, the grand dining room, and the library. You do not go near the west wing. If you see him in the halls, you avert your eyes and walk the other way. Am I understood?”
“Yes, ma'am,” I said, though my heart was suddenly pounding against my ribs. A child. There was a little boy in this massive, silent fortress, and he was being treated like a ghost.
My first two days were a blur of exhausting labor. The estate was immaculate, but the standards were impossibly high. I scrubbed marble until my hands bled and polished antique silver until I could see my own exhausted reflection. It kept my mind off Silas Vance and the debt collectors who were surely hunting for my new address.
On the third afternoon, I was dusting the lower library—a massive, circular room filled with thousands of leather-bound books. The guards rarely patrolled inside, leaving the house in a heavy, oppressive silence.
I was reaching for a high shelf when I heard a faint, rhythmic thumping.
I froze, the feather duster clutched in my hand. I turned slowly.
Standing in the doorway was a small boy. He was drowning in an oversized grey sweater, his dark hair falling into his eyes. In his arms, he clutched a ratty, brown stuffed rabbit. He wasn't looking at me. He was staring blankly at the floor, rhythmically tapping the rabbit’s foot against the heavy mahogany doorframe. Thump. Thump. Thump.
My breath hitched. This was Leo. Julian Thorne’s son.
Every instinct as a former pediatric speech therapist screamed at me to kneel down, to offer a gentle smile, to assess his emotional state. He looked so incredibly hollow, carrying a grief that was entirely too heavy for his tiny shoulders.
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“You are not to approach, look at, or interact with the child.” Ms. Sterling’s warning echoed in my head. If I lost this job, I was dead. Silas Vance’s men would make sure of it.
I turned my back, squeezing my eyes shut, and pretended to dust a row of encyclopedias. I prayed he would walk away. But the thumping stopped. I heard the soft patter of his socks on the hardwood floor. He was walking toward me.
