Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Attic
The sun climbed higher into the sky, burning away the morning mist, but the chill inside my bones only deepened.
"Where is he?" I asked again, my voice devoid of anger now, hollowed out by a strange, numb resignation. "If you're here working as my housekeeper, and Sammy is your son... where is Julian?"
Rebecca hesitated, her eyes darting toward the grand old carriage house situated at the very edge of the estate, partially hidden behind a thick wall of weeping willows and ivy-covered brick. It was a building I rarely visited—an old structure left over from the original nineteenth-century estate, used mostly for storing antique lawn equipment and spare lumber.
"He’s not in Boston anymore," Rebecca said softly. "When I took the job here six months ago... I negotiated for the use of the carriage house loft. Julian came with me three weeks ago. He didn't want to live in your house. He couldn't stomach the luxury bought with the life he never got to live."
I stared at the carriage house. Through the green veil of the willows, a second-story window was faintly visible, its glass reflecting the glare of the midday sun.
For twenty years, I had believed I was the master of this domain. I owned the land, the house, the companies, the very air my employees breathed. But as I sat there looking at that distant window, I realized I had been living in a cage of my own making, and the key had been sitting fifty yards away the entire time.
"Wheel me over there," I commanded quietly.
Rebecca blinked, startled. "Mr. Caldwell—"
"I said, wheel me over there, Rebecca." My voice carried the old, unyielding authority that had once commanded boardrooms across the country, though it lacked its former iron shell. "If my brother is sitting in my backyard watching me drown in my own misery, it's time we settle the ledger."
She didn't argue. She walked around behind my chair, her hands gripping the rubber handles, and pushed me across the sprawling lawn, steering us away from the manicured gardens and toward the neglected, shadowed path leading to the carriage house.
The wheels crunched loudly over the unpaved gravel. Every bump sent a phantom jolt through my numb legs, a reminder of the permanent fracture in my spine that had humbled me faster than any enemy ever could.
When we reached the heavy wooden double doors of the carriage house, Rebecca stopped. She reached into her pocket, pulled out an old brass key, and inserted it into the rusted padlock hanging from the iron hasp.
Click.
The lock fell open. She pushed the heavy door inward, revealing a dim, cavernous interior smelling of old wood, dust, and turpentine. A set of steep wooden stairs led up to the loft apartment above.
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"He doesn't know I came to you," Rebecca said nervously, her hand resting on the edge of my chair. "He told me to keep my distance, to do my job, collect the wages, and leave you to your own quiet misery. If you go up there... I can't protect what happens between you two."
"I don't need protection," I muttered. "I need the truth."
