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Portraits line the walls.

Generations of Vexleys watch me pass. Women in pearls, men in black suits, children posed like china dolls.

When I reach the west dining room, though, I find the door locked.

Odd. Audrey told me to polish the silver. I head into the sitting room and through the other door that leads to the dining room.

Also locked.

Strange.

I’m no stranger to locked doors in Vexley House. The rule is that if a door is locked, staff is not to disturb it. No exceptions.

But these doors are usually not locked.

For the first time since I started working here, I wonder how many secrets I’ve polished around. How many truths I’ve dusted over. How many mysteries I’ve walked past because someone told me the door was none of my concern.

Maybe the Vexleys are eccentric.

Maybe they like privacy.

Maybe every locked room in this house has a perfectly innocent explanation.

Or…maybe there’s a reason these doors stay locked.

Maybe secrets are hiding behind them.

And maybe, if I’m brave enough or foolish enough to find the right key, I can bring those secrets into the light.

Anything to help my mother.

30

NATHANIEL

I drive too fast. The speedometer needle climbs higher than it should. Higher than I usually allow.

I’m not a reckless man.

That’s Samson’s role.

Or it was.

Samson breaks things first while I’m left to clean up the mess.

The road bends sharply, and I take it without slowing. The back end of the car fishtails for half a second before traction catches again.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

The note.

Samson’s note.

The damned sticky note hidden inside the bedframe. What the fuck does it mean?

Since when is Samson ever sorry about anything? And apologizing to our father?

No way. Not on brand at all.