Chapter 6 - The Razor's Edge
The heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs hit my ears like consecutive gunshots in the cold basement.
My pulse thudded violently against my temples, so loud that I was certain Daniel could hear it from the top of the landing.
I had less than four seconds before his silhouette rounded the brick archway leading into the private study.
With fingers numb from adrenaline, I shoved the heavy Project Artemis dossier back into the dark cavity of the floor safe.
I caught the thick metal edge of the safe door with my palm, easing it shut until the locking bolts clicked into place with a sickeningly loud snap.
I spun the brass combination dial wildly to the left, wiping away my greasy fingerprints with the hem of my wool sweater.
The ornate grandfather clock in the upper hall chimed a quarter past four, echoing down the subterranean corridor.
"Margaret?" his voice drifted closer, slick as melted butter and filled with predatory curiosity.
I snatched my personal smartphone from my pocket, sliding against the polished mahogany desk toward the far bookshelf.
My eyes landed on an antique leather-bound volume of John Milton’s Paradise Lost sitting innocently on the middle shelf.
I pulled the book down, flipped it open to a random page, and leaned against the mahogany shelves just as Daniel’s shadow stretched across the threshold.
He stood in the doorway, impeccably tailored in his charcoal wool overcoat, his dark hair damp from the afternoon drizzle.
His gaze swept the perimeter of the room with the practiced efficiency of a trained interrogator before locking directly onto my face.
"What are you doing down here in the dark, sweetheart?" he asked, his lips curving into his signature boyish smile while his eyes remained entirely dead.
"You gave me such a fright, Daniel," I said, forcing my vocal cords to produce a soft, breathless chuckle that sounded convincingly frail.
"The library upstairs was freezing, and I remembered you had that lovely original illustrated edition of Milton down here."
I held up the dusty book, letting my hands tremble slightly so that any visible shaking would look like the harmless infirmity of old age.
He did not smile back; instead, he took three slow, deliberate strides into the room, his leather soles clicking against the cold flagstones.
He paused two inches away from the Persian rug that concealed the hidden safe beneath our feet.
My breath stalled in my chest as I watched his polished oxford shoes hover directly over the seam of the floorboards.
"I thought we agreed you shouldn't be wandering down these steep stone steps alone," he murmured, reaching out to gently brush a strand of gray hair behind my ear.
His fingers were ice-cold against my skin, sending a wave of absolute revulsion cascading down my spine.
"With your dizzy spells getting worse, a single fall down that stairwell could be fatal, Margaret."
The subtle emphasis he placed on the word fatal was not lost on me.
"I know, my love, I know," I whispered, lowering my eyelids to mimic submissive fatigue.
"I just felt a sudden burst of energy this afternoon, but now my head is pounding again."
Daniel tilted his head, his sharp jawline tensing as his eyes drifted downward toward the desk.
The desk lamp was still radiating a faint halo of heat, and a single displaced paperclip lay beside the leather blotter.
"Did you touch anything on my desk, Margaret?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave into a low, terrifying stillness.
"No, darling, of course not," I replied, looking him directly in the pupils without flinching.
"I wouldn't even know how to begin organizing your brilliant paperwork; you know how terrible I am with modern business."
He stared at me in total silence for five excruciating seconds, searching my wrinkled face for a twitch, a bead of sweat, or a flicker of deception.
I channeled every ounce of discipline I had mastered during thirty-eight years of standing before unruly classrooms, holding my expression completely blank.
Slowly, the icy rigidity in his shoulders relaxed, and the warm, affectionate mask slipped effortlessly back over his handsome features.
"You must take better care of yourself," he said softly, sliding his arm around my waist and guiding me away from the hidden safe.
"Come upstairs, Margaret; it's freezing down here in this dreary tomb."
"I'll brew you a fresh pot of chamomile tea to warm your blood before dinner."
As he escorted me up the narrow stone stairs, his hand rested heavily against the small of my back, heavy and unyielding as an iron bar.
Every step felt like a march toward the gallows, but beneath the terror, a blazing ember of pure rage had ignited within my soul.
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He thought I was a docile sheep waiting patiently for the butcher's blade.
He had no idea that while his back was turned in the darkness, I had memorized every single coordinate on that offshore transport manifest.
