The mansion glittered like a place where pain was not allowed to exist.
Crystal chandeliers poured light over white roses, gold trays, silk dresses, black suits, and champagne glasses that never stayed empty for long.
I moved through it all with a tray in my hands and a fake smile on my face.
My name was Grace Miller.
I was not supposed to notice anything.
That was what the event manager told us before the party began.
“Serve. Smile. Stay invisible.”
So I served.
I smiled.
I stayed invisible.
Until I heard the sound.
Thump.
I stopped near the west hallway, between a marble fireplace and a wall covered with paintings so large they looked like museum pieces.
A man laughed behind me.
A woman complained that the caviar was too cold.
A pianist played something soft and expensive in the next room.
Then I heard it again.
Thump.
Thump.
Not loud.
Not from the floor.
From the wall.
My fingers tightened around the tray.
I turned slowly.
The sound came from behind a massive oil painting of a woman in a blue dress. Her painted eyes looked calm, almost bored, while something behind her knocked again.
Thump.
My heart began to race.
I set my tray on a side table.
I looked around.
No one was watching me.
Everyone was too busy admiring the mansion, the champagne, and the woman who owned it.
Vivian Blackwood.
The richest widow in the county.
The woman throwing a charity gala for missing children.
That was the sick part.
Her whole house was full of posters with smiling kids on them.
Donation cards.
Gold ribbons.
Speeches about protection.
And behind the painting, someone was knocking.
I stepped closer.
“Hello?” I whispered.
The knocking stopped.
A tiny voice answered from inside the wall.
“Please.”
My blood turned cold.
I grabbed the frame with both hands.
It was heavy.
Too heavy for one person.
But fear gave me strength.
I pulled.
The painting shifted.
A narrow hidden door appeared behind it.
There was a brass latch.
My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped it.
I opened the door.
Darkness breathed out.
And inside, curled in a tiny space no bigger than a closet, was a little girl.
She could not have been more than seven.
Her face was wet with tears.
Her hair was tangled.
Her wrists were tied with a silk scarf.
Her knees were pulled to her chest.
For one second, she stared at me like she did not believe I was real.
Comments (0)