Chapter 1: The Hollow Farewell
The sky over Greenwood Cemetery was the color of a bruised plum, heavy with the threat of a storm that refused to break. I stood among the mourners, my black wool coat damp with the mist, feeling a hollow ache in my chest that no amount of prayer could soothe. For twenty-two years, I, Charlotte Brooks, had been the shadow in the halls of the Price Estate. I wasn’t just the housekeeper; I was the keeper of secrets, the witness to Eleanor Price’s slow retreat from a world that had grown too loud and too predatory for her gentle soul.
The priest’s voice was a rhythmic drone, a liturgical hum that felt insultingly routine. Beside the open grave, the mahogany coffin sat perched on velvet straps, its polished surface reflecting the somber faces of the elite. To the casual observer, this was the tragic end of a matriarch. To me, it felt like a mistake—a jagged tear in the fabric of reality.
“Dust to dust,” the priest intoned.
I looked at Richard Price, Eleanor’s only son. He stood with a posture so immaculate it bordered on the architectural. Not a hair out of place, his grief worn like a bespoke suit—perfectly tailored and entirely for show. Beside him, his wife, Natalie Price, dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, though her gaze remained cold, darting toward her husband with an unspoken impatience. They were already spending the inheritance in their minds; I could smell the greed beneath their expensive perfumes.
