Chapter 3 - Escape from the East Wing
Getting out was infinitely harder than getting in. The hallway was now a swirling vortex of red flame and blinding white smoke. The main staircase had collapsed into the grand foyer below, creating a crater of roaring fire.
“The laundry chute!” Evelyn remembered.
Near the end of the east corridor was a heavy metal door leading to the industrial linen chute—a wide, stainless-steel tube that dropped three floors down into the basement washroom. It was designed to send heavy bags of bedding down to the laundry staff.
Evelyn dragged Noah down the corridor, dodging a falling oak beam that showered them in sparks. Her lungs burned; her vision was narrowing to a pinpoint of tunnel vision.
“Evelyn, it’s too high!” Noah cried as she pulled open the metal hatch.
“It’s a smooth metal slide, Noah. The basement has a concrete floor, but the laundry bin at the bottom is full of hundreds of pounds of dirty velvet draperies from last week’s gala,” Evelyn said, her voice fiercely confident despite the terror gripping her heart. “I’m putting you in first. Slide down, land on the linen, and stay down until I come! Do you hear me?”
Noah looked into her eyes, seeing not a maid, but the only mother figure he had ever truly known. He nodded bravely. “I trust you.”
Evelyn helped him slide his legs into the dark chute and released him. A moment later, she heard a muffled thump and his distant voice echoing from below: “I’m okay! I landed on the velvet!”
Without hesitating, Evelyn tucked the steel box into her coat, swung her legs into the opening, and let go.
The dark descent was a blur of cold steel and screaming friction. She slammed into the massive mountain of heavy fabrics in the basement, coughing frantically as the cool air of the underground washroom hit her face.
The basement was rapidly filling with smoke from above, but the exterior storm doors leading to the service garden were unlatched. Evelyn grabbed Noah, hoisted him into a laundry cart, and pushed it through the heavy metal doors out into the crisp, cool autumn night air.
They collapsed onto the damp grass near the high stone perimeter wall, hidden behind a thick hedge of overgrown rhododendrons. Across the wide lawn, half a mile away, the main mansion was now fully engulfed in towering flames, painterly reds and golds licking the dark Connecticut night sky.
And near the driveway, illuminated by the flashing lights of approaching fire engines, stood Charles Whitmore and Victoria.
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They were not crying. They were not watching the windows for a boy’s face.
Victoria was casually adjusting her diamond necklace, chatting calmly with a head security guard, while Charles held a handkerchief to his nose, his eyes fixed on the burning second floor of the east wing—watching, waiting for the roof to collapse and cremate their final secret forever.
