Rain drizzled over the sprawling Whitmore estate, turning the gravel driveway into a slick ribbon of gray. Maren Calloway adjusted her coat and took a deep breath, feeling the cold seep into her bones. She had come to this remote European manor not just for work, but because she had been drawn into something far darker than a simple housekeeping job.
“Miss Maren,” a small voice called softly from behind her. She turned and saw a little girl clutching a worn rabbit doll. “They said… they said you’re bad luck.”
Maren’s chest tightened. “Sweetheart, that’s not true,” she said gently, kneeling to meet the girl’s eyes. “No one blames you, and you’re not unlucky.”
The girl hesitated, then whispered, “I believe you.” Maren hugged her, swallowing back the familiar ache in her throat. That night, lying on the narrow cot in the servant’s wing, she replayed every horrifying moment. The soil turned by frantic hands, the scream muffled by panic, and the moment Tobias Lennox had disappeared beneath the earth. The house felt heavier now, shadows seeming to curl around corners and listen.
Somebody had buried Toby. Somebody had wanted her blamed. And Maren, wiping tears from her cheeks, whispered into the darkness, “If I was placed here for a reason, don’t let me fail. Not this time.”
The next morning brought no relief. The manor’s gardens were trampled, flowers crushed into mud, a sharp reminder of the night’s terror. Maren stayed back, watching from the hedges, bruises hidden beneath her sleeves, staff moving past her as if she were air. Celia Renaud, the woman who had orchestrated the chaos, floated past with her morning tea, flawless as ever, smiling at servants who nodded nervously in her presence. Maren knew that smile; it masked everything dangerous.
In the foyer, Maren found Toby’s favorite toy truck peeking out from under the rug. She knelt, brushing away the dirt. The sharpie letters on the underside spelled “T. Lennox.” Her stomach knotted. Someone had planted it back as a warning.
“You shouldn’t be here,” a cold voice said behind her. Maren stood, facing Celia, her hair perfectly arranged, her expression a mask of faux concern. “I’m keeping him safe,” Maren said firmly.
Celia’s lips curved in a cruel smile. “Safe? You call meddling safety?”
“I call it protecting a child from someone who manipulates fear like it’s medicine,” Maren said.
