Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Well
Upstairs in the private east wing, Kate lay in the oversized four-poster bed. The pain had subsided to a dull, throbbing ache under the heavy influence of the medication Dr. Reyes had administered.
The room was vast, furnished in dark velvet and hand-carved mahogany. It felt more like a fortress than a guest room.
The brass door handle turned.
Kate tensed, pulling the heavy duvet up with her good arm.
An elderly woman walked in, leaning on a polished ebony cane tipped with silver. Eleanor Blackwell, eighty-one years old, carried herself like an empress who had presided over fifty years of silent assassinations and dynasty-building. Her silver hair was pinned immaculately, her dark eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
“Sit still, child,” Eleanor said, her voice dry and rasping like autumn leaves. “You look like a ghost.”
“Mrs. Blackwell… I’m sorry,” Kate stammered, attempting to rise. “I shouldn't be in this room. I’ll go home—”
“You will go nowhere until the sun rises,” Eleanor snapped, seating herself in an upholstered armchair beside the bed. “My grandson has turned this estate into an armed garrison tonight because of you. If you step outside those gates, someone might put a bullet in your chest simply to spite him.”
Kate’s heart hammered. “I never wanted any of this. I just wanted to do my shift. I told him not to do anything.”
Eleanor let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Tell Damon not to strike when his blood is up? You clearly do not know the men of this family, Miss Bennett. They do not forgive slights. But more importantly…”
The old matriarch leaned forward, her gaze piercing Kate’s soul.
“…Damon has never once shed blood for a domestic servant. He has fired fifty maids for minor infractions. Yet tonight, he is actively declaring war on a United States Senator and half our business council. Why do you think that is?”
“I… I don't know,” Kate whispered honestly.
Eleanor opened a velvet clutch and pulled out an old, creased photograph, tossing it onto Kate’s lap.
Kate looked down with her left hand.
The black-and-white photograph showed three people standing outside a brownstone in South Boston forty years ago. One was a young Eleanor Blackwell. The second was Damon’s late father.
The third was Kate’s father, Thomas Bennett, wearing a Blackwell syndicate security badge.
“Your father didn't run away when you were nine, Kate,” Eleanor said coldly. “He died protecting Damon when my grandson was just a boy. Damon spent fifteen years looking for your family to settle the blood debt. And you walked right into his front door applying for a maid’s uniform.”
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Before Kate could process the shock, the bedroom window shattered inward in a hail of deafening gunfire.
***
