Chapter 2 - THE EMPTY QUARTERS
The west staff residence was situated behind the main courtyard, a long, single-story stone structure with arched porches and flowering jasmine climbing the pillars. It was traditionally reserved for senior household staff, quiet and isolated from the main house.
Damon walked quickly down the flagstone path, his heavy boots clicking against the gray stone. Ruby was curled against his chest, her breathing shallow, her small hands clutching his lapel as if letting go would mean falling off the edge of the world.
“We’re almost there, sweetheart,” Damon murmured, his deep voice carrying a strange gentleness that none of his business associates would ever have believed him capable of.
When they reached Room 12, the door was standing half open.
The wood had not been kicked in, but the latch was broken, hanging crookedly from its screws.
Damon stopped dead on the threshold.
“Marcus?” he called out, his voice sharp.
Marcus appeared from the hallway behind the kitchen, his hand resting casually on the butt of his sidearm, his eyes scanning the perimeter with cold precision.
“Clear,” Marcus said, stepping into the room. “Nobody’s here.”
Damon carried Ruby inside.
The room was immaculate, exactly as Selena kept it. A stack of children’s books rested on the nightstand beside a small ceramic lamp. A blue blanket was folded neatly at the foot of a twin bed. The air smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla soap.
But the window was open.
The sheer white curtain billowed outward in the dry desert breeze, fluttering against the screen like a trapped bird.
On the small wooden desk beneath the window sat Selena’s phone.
The screen was lit.
Damon walked over, setting Ruby down gently on her feet—though he kept one large hand resting protectively on her shoulder. He reached out and picked up the phone.
There was a single draft message open on the screen, unfinished, typed with frantic speed:
Damon, he found us. He’s—
The message cut off mid-sentence.
Marcus stepped closer, peering over Damon’s shoulder. His face hardened into a mask of pure granite.
“Footprints outside the window,” Marcus said quietly. “He didn't use the door, boss. Whoever came here climbed over the wall from the service road and cut through the garden.”
“Who knew where she lived?” Damon asked, his voice dropping into that chilling, quiet register that usually preceded a funeral.
“Only administrative staff. Payroll. And…” Marcus hesitated, his eyes narrowing.
“And who?” Damon demanded.
“Victor Lane,” Marcus said slowly. “He signed off on her background check when she was hired eight months ago. He’s the one who processed her employment file.”
Damon stared down at the half-typed message on the phone screen.
May you like
Victor Lane. His oldest adviser. The man who had sat at his right hand through three corporate wars, two federal investigations, and every major land acquisition in the valley.
“Bring Victor to the west quarters,” Damon ordered without looking up. “And don't be polite about it.”
