Chapter 6 - The Dead Mother’s Ledger
By Thursday, a fragile, unspoken rhythm had established itself between Ruby and the silent boy in the East Wing.
Oliver still wouldn't speak in full sentences, and he still refused to come out of the wardrobe while she was standing up, but he now ate his meals at the small table instead of hiding, and twice he had handed her his empty cup without flinching when she reached for it.
It was during Ollie’s afternoon nap—when he finally fell asleep curled up on a daybed with his toy rabbit—that Ruby began her deep clean of the suite’s adjoining study.
The study was lined with heavy mahogany bookshelves filled with children’s encyclopedias, developmental psychology textbooks, and leather-bound photo albums.
As Ruby dusted the top shelf behind the heavy oak desk, her sleeve caught the corner of a loose wooden panel in the wainscoting.
Click.
The panel sprang open a quarter-inch.
Frowning, Ruby set her feather duster down, hooked her fingers into the edge of the panel, and pulled. It slid open smoothly, revealing a hidden wall recess.
Inside sat a single, leather-bound journal with a silver clasp, and a thick manila envelope stamped with the seal of the Connecticut State Police.
Ruby’s heart hammered against her ribs. She knew she shouldn't look. She knew prying into family secrets was the fastest way to get thrown out of the Greenwich mansion—or worse.
But her fingers moved of their own accord.
She pulled out the manila envelope and opened the flap. Inside were police photographs, accident report transcripts, and a coroner’s summary dated two years prior.
Subject: Eleanor Cross. Cause of death: Blunt force trauma / Vehicular collision on Route 95 near Stamford. Notes: Brake lines severed deliberately via hydraulic clamp. Investigation closed due to lack of traceable suspects.
Ruby gasped, dropping the papers back into the envelope with trembling hands.
Eleanor Cross hadn't died in a random robbery gone wrong.
Her brakes had been cut.
She had been murdered.
With shaking fingers, Ruby reached for the leather-bound journal. She popped the silver clasp and opened to the first page. It was filled with handwriting—soft, elegant, and frantic.
“March 14,” the entry read. “Nathaniel is consumed by the company. He doesn't see what is happening right under our roof. Vivian has taken over the East Wing staff. She treats Ollie like an experiment. I found sedatives in the nursery medicine cabinet yesterday. When I confronted her, she smiled and told me that the Cross family empire requires heirs who are ‘manageable.’ I am taking Ollie and leaving tonight. I can't let them turn my son into a ghost.”
The date on the entry was the exact day Eleanor Cross died on the Stamford highway.
Ruby stared at the page, the blood draining from her face.
The blood on the nineteenth nanny’s uniform wasn't just from a hysterical breakdown. The danger in this house wasn't just a traumatized five-year-old boy.
The danger was downstairs, wearing a black dress and a diamond brooch, managing the estate with a smile.
Suddenly, a cold voice spoke from the doorway of the study.
May you like
“I told you, Miss Lane,” Mrs. Ashcroft said smoothly, standing in the doorway with her hands clasped in front of her black dress. “Curiosity is a very dangerous trait in this house.”
Ruby froze, the journal clutched in her white-knuckled grip.
