Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the West Wing
Ten minutes later, Grace and Lily were seated in the secure library on the first floor. I sat across from them, a heavy glass of bourbon—poured by my own hand from a sealed decanter—resting untouched on the mahogany desk between us.
Lily sat quietly, her small shoes swinging an inch above the Persian rug.
"Lily," I said gently, crouching down so I was at eye level with the child. "How did you know the moon scratch was my glass?"
Lily looked at her mother, who gave her an encouraging nod, then turned back to me. "Because two weeks ago, when I was helping Mom dust the dining room, a lady in a gray coat came into the service pantry. She didn't see me because I was under the linen table."
My posture locked. "A lady in a gray coat?"
"Yes," Lily whispered. "She had yellow hair like Miss Celeste, but she walked different. Fast and loud. She had a big leather bag. She opened the crystal cabinet and took out three glasses. When she put them back, she dropped one on the marble counter and scratched the bottom against her ring. She cursed real loud, then looked around."
"Did she see you?" Grace asked, her face drained of color.
"No," Lily shook her head. "I stayed real still like a mouse. But when she left, I checked the glass. The little scratch looked like the moon I see out my bedroom window. So whenever I set your spot, Mr. Moretti, I made sure the little moon pointed right at your chair so you'd have the special one."
Two weeks ago.
This wasn't a sudden plot hatched over the weekend. Celeste—or whoever was operating under her name—had been surveying my estate, swapping out household items, and testing the security perimeter for half a month.
Vincent knocked twice on the open door frame before stepping inside.
"Celeste's car just passed through the main security gate at the foot of the drive," Vincent announced quietly. "She's alone in her Mercedes. Arrival at the front portico in two minutes."
"Did you check her phone logs for the past three hours?" I asked, standing up and buttoning my suit jacket.
"We ran a trace through our private cell tower," Vincent replied, handing me a printout. "She didn't call a spa. She was parked at an abandoned private airfield four miles north of the estate. Three encrypted calls were made to an unlisted satellite number registered to a holding company in Zurich."
"Zurich," I repeated.
Zurich was where my father’s former business partner, Julian Vance, had retreated after the hostile takeover twenty years ago. Julian Vance had a daughter. A daughter whose birth name was Celeste Vance.
When I met Celeste three years ago at an art gala in Manhattan, she went by Celeste Vale. She presented herself as a self-made gallery owner with no living family and no ties to Wall Street. I had allowed myself to believe her because I was tired of being alone in a forty-room house.
I looked at Grace Miller. "Take Lily into the panic room behind the wine cellar. Lock it from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except Vincent or me."
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"Mr. Moretti," Grace said, her hands trembling as she took my arm. "Please be careful. She isn't acting alone."
"I know," I said softly, looking down at Lily one last time. "And that is precisely why she is going to tell me everything before the night is over."
