Chapter 3 - Whispers in the Snow
The wind outside the estate did not howl; it screamed, a high-pitched, agonizing shriek that rattled the leaded glass of the nursery windowpane. Inside the quiet room, Maya sat huddled on the plush rug, the weight of the baby in her arms heavier than the two hundred pounds of snow piled against the front door.
She had been here for two days, yet it felt like a lifetime. The belief that had taken root in her mind was absolute: Eleanor was a monster, and this estate was a tomb. The maid, a woman with weary eyes named Sarah, had been the only ray of light, but the silence between them had grown too loud. Maya knew she had to move. The snowstorm raging outside was a chaotic blur of white, but she knew the road to the county sheriff’s station was only three miles east. If she could just get to the pavement, she could flag down a car.
Maya stood, the baby stirrup in her arms shifting restlessly. She looked around the nursery one last time, memorizing the exit route, before tiptoeing toward the connecting hallway. The house was still, a sleeping giant, but the fear that coiled in her stomach was cold and sharp.
She found Sarah in the pantry, her back pressed against the cold stone wall, a frantic energy radiating from her.
"Sarah, please," Maya hissed, glancing toward the kitchen doorway. "I have to go. The sheriff... I have to call the sheriff."
Sarah’s eyes widened, darting to the door. She reached into the folds of her apron and pressed a small, black object into Maya’s hand. It was a burner phone, ancient and battered.
"Go," Sarah whispered, her voice trembling. "But if you call the local station, you’re dead. I heard them talking about the new arrival. They know."
Maya’s breath hitched. "They know I'm here."
"I don't know if they know you're here," Sarah corrected, her voice dropping to a terrified squeak. "But they know you're here."
Maya gripped the phone, the battery icon barely blinking red. She slipped out the back servant’s entrance into the freezing night, the blast of arctic air knocking the air from her lungs. She pulled the heavy wool coat tighter around the baby, her boots crunching violently against the pristine snow.
She ran. The drifts were deeper than she anticipated, swallowing her shins and slowing her progress. The world was reduced to a swirling vortex of white and black; the estate’s floodlights cut through the fog like searchlights in a submarine.
She kept her eyes on the distant, faint glow of the town’s main street, the beacon of civilization. If she could just reach the intersection, she would be safe. She was so close to the truth, so close to the police.
The storm intensified. The wind whipped the snow horizontally, blinding her. She stumbled, catching herself on a tree trunk, the bark tearing at her gloves. She fell to her knees, the snow biting into her skin. She had to get up. She had to run.
She crawled forward, pushing through the drifts, her lungs burning. The snow was up to her waist now. She needed a landmark. A church steeple? A diner sign? Anything.
Then, through the whiteness, a structure emerged. It was a small, solitary building tucked into the woods, about fifty yards off the main path. It was a security outpost. A cottage. It had a light on.
Hope surged through her. This was the estate’s security detail. They would help her. They would see the girl in the snow and the baby and call the police immediately.
Maya dragged herself up, her legs screaming in protest. She stumbled the final few yards, her breath forming clouds of white vapor in the frigid air. She reached the door, her hand shaking as she reached for the handle.
She pushed it open.
The sound of the wind died instantly, replaced by the low, rhythmic hiss of a gas fireplace and the faint clink of china.
Maya froze in the doorway, the cold air from outside instantly replaced by the oppressive warmth of the interior.
The room was small and cozy, lined with bookshelves and equipped with a heavy oak desk. Sitting in a high-backed leather chair by the fire was a man Maya knew she shouldn't see. He was Eleanor’s chief attorney, a man with a reputation for ruthlessness and a smile that never reached his eyes.
But it wasn't the attorney she saw first.
Sitting in the plush armchair opposite the lawyer, nursing a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea with both hands, was her mother.
The woman looked older than Maya remembered. Her hair was streaked with silver, and her face was pale, drained of all color. She wore a thick cardigan and looked impossibly calm, her hands steady as she took a delicate sip of tea.
Maya’s breath caught in a silent scream. Her mother was supposed to be dead. She was supposed to have been sold, or worse. She was supposed to be gone.
May you like
The lawyer looked up from his laptop, his gaze shifting from the screen to the frozen figure in the doorway. He didn't look surprised. He didn't look angry.
Eleanor’s mother simply smiled, a slow, vacant expression that made the blood drain from Maya’s face. She set her cup down on the coaster with a soft clink, looked directly at Maya, and spoke in a voice that was terrifyingly lucid.
