Chapter 9 - The Maid's Courage
An hour earlier, at the Westwood Lake Forest Estate...
The grand estate was silent, shrouded in heavy autumn fog coming off Lake Michigan. Rachel had taken a service vehicle from the city mansion to Lake Forest to retrieve some of Claire's old personal belongings that Natalie had requested.
Emma sat in the passenger seat of the station wagon, holding her stuffed rabbit, looking out at the massive stone archways of the carriage house.
"Stay in the car, honey," Rachel said softly, kissing her daughter’s forehead. "Mommy just needs to grab a box from the old office upstairs."
"Mommy, look," Emma pointed a small finger toward the trees near the edge of the property.
A black SUV with tinted windows was parked half-hidden under the weeping willows. Two men wearing dark rain jackets were stepping out, carrying heavy plastic jerrycans.
Rachel’s heart plummeted into her stomach.
Gasoline.
She immediately pulled out her phone to dial Adrian, but the signal bar in the deep woods flickered and vanished—NO SERVICE.
"Emma, lock the doors from the inside and do not make a sound," Rachel ordered, her voice trembling with intense adrenaline. "Do you understand me? Lock the doors!"
Emma nodded quickly, pushing the lock button down.
Rachel slipped out of the station wagon, staying low against the stone wall of the carriage house. She picked up a heavy iron tire iron from the open trunk of her wagon and crept toward the back entrance of the carriage house.
Inside, the air smelled of stale oil, old wood, and wet leaves.
Upstairs, in the secondary loft that Claire had used as a darkroom and painting studio, Rachel heard heavy footsteps slamming against the floorboards.
"Find the damn box!" a rough male voice shouted. "Croft said it's behind the wall panelling near the window! Search fast, then douse the place!"
"What about the car outside?" a second voice asked.
"Burn that too. Leave no witnesses."
Rachel gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. They were going to kill Emma.
A surge of protective rage wiped away every ounce of fear in Rachel's body. She was no longer just a housemaid; she was a mother fighting for her child's life.
She quietly moved toward the basement electrical breaker panel near the back stairs. She threw the main breaker switch down with all her strength.
CLACK.
The entire carriage house plummeted into total darkness.
"What the hell?!" shouted the man upstairs. "Power's out! Get the flashlights!"
Rachel sprinted up the back wooden stairs in the pitch black. She knew this building like the back of her hand—she had cleaned it every weekend for two years.
She reached the top floor studio just as one of the men clicked on a high-powered tactical flashlight. The beam illuminated a small, rusted iron box that they had just pried open from behind a wooden beam.
Inside lay a thick set of printed ledger papers and an audio cassette.
"Got it!" the man yelled.
Rachel didn't hesitate. She stepped out of the shadow of the doorway and swung the heavy iron tire iron with both hands, striking the flashlight-holding man full in the side of the head.
CRACK!
The man groaned, collapsing instantly to the floor, dropping the flashlights and the ledger box.
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"What the—?!" the second man roared, turning toward her in the dark.
Rachel grabbed the steel box, turned on her heel, and bolted down the dark corridor toward the loft's emergency fire exit ladder.
