Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the North Wing
While the storm raged outside, pounding rain against the rotting window frames of Greystone Manor, Logan walked the darkened corridors of the upper floor.
He hadn't been in the north wing since he was a teenager. It was Elena’s domain—the part of the house where the light always seemed softer, where the smell of oil paint and turpentine lingered long after she went to sleep.
The door to her old studio was locked. Logan didn't bother looking for the key; he raised his boot and drove his heel against the frame just below the brass knob. The old wood splintered with a sharp crack, and the door swung wide open.
He stepped inside with a flashlight in hand.
Dust motes danced in the narrow beam of light. Drop cloths covered the furniture like shrouded corpses. An empty easel stood in the center of the room, facing the tall arched window that looked out over the river.
Logan swept the light across the walls.
Something was wrong with the east wall. The wainscoting looked newer, the paint slightly mismatched. He walked over, running his calloused hand along the wood paneling until his fingers found a small, recessed brass latch hidden beneath the carved molding of a floral trim.
He pressed it.
With a soft, pneumatic hiss, a section of the wall swung inward, revealing a hidden alcove no wider than a closet.
Inside sat a heavy metal lockbox and a stack of journals bound in twine.
Logan pulled them out, carrying them over to the shrouded windowsill, and sat down on the dusty floor. He cut the twine with his pocketknife and opened the first journal.
Elena’s handwriting—neat, elegant, slightly hurried.
March 14. Vincent came to the gallery today. He didn't talk about art. He talked about the shipping manifests. He thinks I’m stupid because I paint flowers, but I saw the numbers on the ledger he left on father’s desk. He’s skimming millions from the union pension funds to buy properties in the Cayman Islands. If Logan finds out, there will be a war. I have to leave.
Logan’s hands tightened on the paper, crumpling the edge slightly. He turned the page.
March 28. I packed the car. I’m taking the back road through Peekskill. I left a note for Logan in his study, but I don't know if he’ll find it before Vincent intercepts it. The brakes feel soft. Too soft. Like someone bled the lines...
Logan stopped breathing.
The next page was blank, save for a single smear of dried dark ink—or blood.
That was the day of the crash. The day the police told Logan his sister’s car had failed on a sharp curve above the river. The day Vincent had embraced him at the funeral, whispering comfort into his ear while holding the keys to the kingdom.
Logan turned to the later journals, flipping ahead years.
October 12. He didn't kill me. Not yet. He put me in the stone cottage by the old mill. He told me if I ever tried to contact Logan, or if I ever tried to leave the county, my son and daughter would pay the price. He visits once a month. He smiles like a wolf. I am a ghost. But I have my girls. As long as I have Nova and Luna, I will survive.
The entries grew darker, thinner, more desperate, detailing years of captivity disguised as protection, years of living under the thumb of an uncle who ruled the family like a feudal lord.
Then came the final entry, dated just ten months ago.
November 4. Vincent came today. He found out I was teaching Nova how to read maps. He said I was becoming a liability now that Logan was expanding north. We argued on the stairs. He said accidents happen to people who fall. My head hurts. The girls are crying downstairs. I pray to God Logan finds this house. I pray he finds my girls.
The journal slipped from Logan’s fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
The grief he had carried for eight years—a heavy, aching stone in his chest—suddenly dissolved, replaced by something much hotter, much sharper, and infinitely more lethal.
It wasn't grief anymore.
It was a blood debt.
Logan stood up, picked up the lockbox containing the ledgers, the stolen wire transfer receipts, and Elena’s final journals, and walked out of the north wing.
Downstairs, Marcus was sitting at the kitchen table, feeding warm soup to Nova and Luna while keeping an eye on the front windows.
When Logan walked into the kitchen, his face was expressionless, but his eyes burned with the dark intensity of a man who had already sentenced his executioner.
“Marcus,” Logan said, placing the lockbox on the table. “Pack the girls into the armored suburban. We’re leaving Greystone.”
May you like
“Where to?” Marcus asked, seeing the look in Logan’s eyes. “Vincent’s estate in Alpine?”
“No,” Logan said, sliding his weapon back into its holster. “We’re going to the old mill. It’s time to collect what belongs to us.”
