Chapter 2 - The Glass Bird
The service door opened another inch.
Elena grabbed Grant’s wrist.
“Don’t turn around.”
Grant kept his eyes on her.
“Why?”
“Because if she sees me giving you that key, I lose more than my job.”
Footsteps sounded behind the door.
Elena released him and stepped away.
“Put it away.”
Grant slipped the brass key into his pocket.
The door swung open.
A young catering assistant emerged carrying two black trash bags. He barely looked at them before heading toward the bins.
Elena exhaled.
Grant waited until the man disappeared.
“You said Marcus.”
“I know what I said.”
“Marcus Bell?”
Elena looked toward the security camera above the service entrance.
“We can’t talk here.”
“Then tell me where.”
“Room 417.”
“You just said it’s at Northstar.”
“It is.”
“Which building?”
Elena hesitated.
“The old Queens terminal.”
Grant stared at her.
Northstar owned seven major facilities around New York.
But there was only one employees called the old terminal.
Building C.
It had been part of the company before Northstar became Northstar, back when Grant owned six trucks, had fourteen employees, and personally repaired broken loading ramps because he could not afford contractors.
Building C had supposedly been emptied years ago.
“What’s in Room 417?”
“I never went inside.”
“But you have the key.”
“My husband did.”
Grant’s expression changed.
“You’re married?”
“Widowed.”
“I’m sorry.”
Elena looked down.
“He worked for Northstar.”
Grant searched his memory.
Thousands of people worked for him. He hated that he could not immediately connect her husband to a face.
“What was his name?”
“Luis Ruiz.”
The name struck something.
Not recognition exactly.
A memory without a shape.
Grant repeated it.
“Luis Ruiz.”
“He was a systems technician.”
“When?”
“Until eleven months ago.”
“How did he die?”
Elena’s jaw tightened.
“Car accident.”
Grant heard what she did not say.
“You don’t believe it was an accident.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Elena looked at him strangely.
For the first time, Grant wondered how much she knew about Daniel Price.
Then she said, “You should go.”
“Not yet.”
“Mr. Price—”
“Daniel.”
“Daniel, please. I shouldn’t have told you anything.”
“Why did you?”
Her eyes moved toward his face.
“Because you were kind to Maisie before you knew anyone was watching.”
The words landed harder than Grant expected.
That was exactly what he had once believed about Celeste.
Elena stepped toward the house.
Grant stopped her with a question.
“Why did Luis have a key to a room in a closed building?”
She froze.
“He found something.”
“What?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Then how do you know it involved Marcus?”
Elena turned back.
“Because three days before Luis died, he came home at two in the morning. He was terrified. I had never seen him like that.”
Grant said nothing.
“He kept checking the windows. He unplugged our router. He took the battery out of his phone and put it in the kitchen drawer.”
“What did he say?”
“That someone at Northstar was using old company infrastructure for something that had nothing to do with freight.”
“What kind of infrastructure?”
“Servers. Accounts. Storage rooms. I don’t know.”
“And Marcus?”
Elena swallowed.
“Luis said, ‘If anything happens to me, don’t trust Marcus Bell.’”
Grant’s face remained still.
Inside, something tore.
Marcus had been beside him for seventeen years.
He had slept on Grant’s apartment floor when Northstar nearly collapsed during its second year. He had loaned Grant eleven thousand dollars when the company could not make payroll.
He was godfather to Grant’s nephew.
There were people Grant trusted.
Then there was Marcus.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know Marcus.”
“No.”
“Then why are you working in my—”
Grant stopped.
Elena stared at him.
Too late.
“My what?” she asked.
Grant recovered.
“In a house connected to Northstar’s owner.”
Her expression sharpened.
“I applied because I needed work.”
“And you happened to end up here?”
“Yes.”
He did not believe her.
She knew it.
“You should leave,” she said.
Grant touched the key through his pocket.
“After tonight.”
Elena’s face changed.
“What happens tonight?”
“I make my delivery.”
He walked toward the van.
Behind him, Elena whispered, “Don’t trust the cameras.”
Grant stopped.
But when he turned, she was already inside.
At 12:07 p.m., Grant sat in the cargo van three blocks from the townhouse.
He called Marcus.
Marcus answered immediately.
“Please tell me you’ve abandoned whatever terrible idea you just had.”
“I need access to Building C.”
Silence.
“Why?”
“Room 417.”
Another silence.
This one lasted longer.
Grant stared through the windshield.
“Marcus?”
“Where did you hear that number?”
There it was.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
Grant kept his voice neutral.
“Why?”
“Because Building C doesn’t have a fourth floor.”
Grant looked down at the brass key.
417 had been stamped into its head.
“You’re sure?”
“I helped renovate that place.”
“Maybe there used to be one.”
“No. Three floors and a mechanical level.”
Grant leaned back.
“Then what is Room 417?”
“I have no idea.”
That answer came too carefully.
Grant closed his eyes.
“Pull the building plans.”
“I can do that.”
“Do it yourself.”
“Grant.”
“No assistants.”
Marcus sighed.
“Okay.”
“And the house cameras?”
“I’ve already started.”
“Anything?”
“You called me twelve minutes ago.”
“You’re getting slow.”
“I’m getting old because my best friend enjoys creating emergencies.”
Grant almost smiled.
Almost.
Then Marcus said, “Did Celeste do something?”
Grant looked toward the distant roofline of his townhouse.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Not over the phone.”
“Is the wedding still happening?”
“I don’t know.”
Marcus became quiet.
That was the response Grant expected from the man who knew him better than anyone.
Not shock.
Not curiosity.
Just space.
“I’ll get you the footage,” Marcus said.
Grant touched the key again.
“Marcus.”
“Yeah?”
“Did you know Luis Ruiz?”
Silence.
Grant counted.
One second.
Two.
Three.
“Systems technician?” Marcus finally asked.
“You remember him.”
“I remember the name.”
“How?”
“Grant, I oversee operations. I know hundreds of names.”
“He died eleven months ago.”
“I vaguely remember.”
“Car accident.”
“Yes.”
Grant stared at the steering wheel.
“Did you attend his funeral?”
“No.”
“Did I?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because we have eighteen thousand employees.”
Grant heard irritation now.
A defensive edge.
“You’re asking strange questions.”
“I’m having a strange day.”
“Go home. Change clothes. Deal with Celeste tonight.”
“I am home.”
“You know what I mean.”
Grant ended the call.
At 5:52 p.m., Grant Mercer entered his townhouse again.
This time, everyone knew his name.
The delivery uniform was gone.
He wore a charcoal suit, white shirt, and dark tie. His hair was combed back. A steel watch rested against his wrist.
The transformation changed nothing about him.
It changed everyone around him.
“Mr. Mercer.”
“Good evening, Mr. Mercer.”
“Welcome home, sir.”
Grant walked through the same service corridor where no one had cared about Daniel Price.
A catering supervisor who had barely looked at him that morning hurried forward with a smile.
“Mr. Mercer, everything is ready.”
“I’m sure it is.”
Grant entered the main room.
Celeste saw him immediately.
Her face lit up.
She crossed the marble floor and kissed him.
“You’re early.”
“Six minutes.”
“I thought you’d be trapped downtown.”
“I changed my schedule.”
She touched his tie.
“You look tired.”
“Long day.”
“Mine too.”
Grant studied her face.
Nothing.
No guilt.
No discomfort.
She had no idea.
“You wouldn’t believe the problems I’ve had with staff today,” she said.
“I might.”
“One of the housekeepers brought her daughter.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Sweet child, but completely inappropriate during an event.”
Grant held her gaze.
“How old?”
“Four? Five?”
Three.
“You met her?”
“For about thirty seconds.”
Grant felt something settle inside him.
Not anger.
Certainty.
Celeste smiled and adjusted his collar.
“I handled it.”
“I’m sure you did.”
She kissed his cheek.
“Go say hello to Richard. He’s been asking for you.”
Grant watched her walk away.
Then he saw Elena.
She stood near the dining room carrying a tray of champagne.
Their eyes met.
The tray tilted slightly.
Grant gave no sign of recognition.
Neither did she.
Good.
The charity dinner began at seven.
By eight, the townhouse was full of donors, executives, foundation directors, and photographers.
Celeste was flawless.
She welcomed everyone personally.
She remembered spouses.
She asked about children.
She complimented a server on the hors d’oeuvres.
At 8:25, she stepped onto the small platform near the staircase.
Grant stood beside her.
Celeste spoke about children who grew up without books.
About opportunity.
About dignity.
Then she said, “Every child deserves to enter a room knowing they belong there.”
Grant nearly looked away.
Applause filled the room.
Celeste smiled.
Grant watched Elena at the edge of the crowd.
Her face had gone rigid.
At 8:43, Grant’s phone vibrated.
MARCUS: Got the camera archive.
Grant excused himself.
He went upstairs to his study and locked the door.
His laptop was already open.
Marcus had sent a secure link.
Grant clicked it.
Folders appeared.
Kitchen.
Foyer.
Garden.
Service corridor.
Main salon.
He selected the main salon.
The morning recording loaded.
10:31:04.
Maisie entered.
Grant watched the child approach the cabinet.
10:31:22.
Elena entered behind her.
Grant frowned.
That had not happened.
He remembered Elena arriving later.
He moved closer to the screen.
The recording showed Elena removing the glass bird from the cabinet.
She crouched.
She gave it to Maisie.
Then she pointed toward the service corridor.
The child nodded.
Elena left.
Grant replayed it.
Something was wrong.
At 10:32:11, Maisie moved backward.
The video skipped.
Not buffered.
Skipped.
Fourteen seconds disappeared.
Grant checked the timestamp.
10:32:11.
Then 10:32:25.
Someone had edited the footage.
His phone rang.
Marcus.
Grant answered.
“You seeing it?”
“Yes.”
“The archive has been altered.”
“I noticed.”
“Not just today.”
Grant stood.
“What do you mean?”
“Someone has been removing small sections for months.”
“Who has access?”
“You. Me. Security director. Two senior systems administrators.”
“And Celeste?”
“No.”
Grant thought about Room 417.
“Marcus, where are you?”
“Queens.”
Grant’s pulse changed.
“Why?”
“I went to Building C.”
Grant gripped the phone.
“I told you to pull the plans.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“You were right.”
“About what?”
“There used to be another level.”
Grant said nothing.
Marcus continued.
“It isn’t listed as a fourth floor. It was an internal records mezzanine. The old numbering system started with four.”
“Room 417 exists.”
“Yes.”
Grant looked toward his study door.
“Did you open it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it needs a physical key.”
Grant put his hand into his pocket.
The brass key was still there.
“I have one.”
“How?”
“Elena.”
Marcus went silent.
Grant waited.
Then Marcus said something that made his skin go cold.
“Grant, Elena Ruiz was never assigned to your house.”
“What?”
“I checked the staffing records.”
“She’s been working here four months.”
“Not through us.”
“Then who hired her?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Grant moved toward the window.
Below, guests stood beneath the chandelier.
Celeste laughed with a foundation director.
“Luis Ruiz,” Grant said. “Tell me the truth.”
Marcus breathed out slowly.
“I knew him.”
“How well?”
“He came to me before he died.”
Grant’s jaw tightened.
“And you didn’t think to mention that?”
“I promised him I wouldn’t.”
“He’s dead.”
“I know.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Not on the phone.”
“Then come here.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
A metallic noise sounded through Marcus’s line.
Grant straightened.
“Marcus?”
No answer.
Another sound.
A door.
Then Marcus whispered, “Someone else is in Building C.”
The line went dead.
Grant called back.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
He grabbed his coat and left the study.
At the top of the staircase, Celeste appeared below.
“There you are.”
Grant stopped.
She smiled.
“We’re about to announce the donation total.”
“I need to leave.”
“Now?”
“Work emergency.”
Her smile weakened.
“Grant, there are two hundred people downstairs.”
“They’ll survive.”
She came up the stairs.
“Is something wrong?”
Grant looked at the woman he had planned to marry.
He wanted to ask about Maisie.
About Elena.
About the altered cameras.
Instead he said, “Where were you eleven months ago?”
Celeste blinked.
“What?”
“Eleven months ago.”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
Her expression hardened.
“Why are you asking me that?”
Grant’s phone vibrated.
A text.
Not Marcus.
Unknown number.
There was a photograph attached.
Grant opened it.
The image showed the glass bird resting on a metal table.
Beside it lay a yellow toy truck.
Underneath was a message.
DON’T GO TO ROOM 417.
Grant looked up.
Celeste was staring at his screen.
For the first time that evening, her perfect expression cracked.
“You need to delete that,” she whispered.
Grant went still.
“You recognize it.”
Celeste stepped closer.
“Grant.”
“What is Room 417?”
Her face drained of color.
A scream came from downstairs.
Grant turned.
Guests began shouting.
Something shattered.
Then Elena appeared at the bottom of the staircase without Maisie.
Blood streaked one sleeve of her gray uniform.
She looked directly at Grant.
“They took her.”
Grant ran down the stairs.
“Who?”
Elena grabbed his arm.
Her fingers were shaking.
“Maisie.”
“I know. Who took her?”
Elena looked past him.
Toward Celeste.
Then every light in the townhouse went out.
Grant’s phone vibrated in his hand.
One new message appeared.
May you like
It contained a live photograph of three-year-old Maisie standing in front of a steel door marked 417.
And behind her, someone was reaching for the handle.
