Page 43 of Veil of Obsession
THE GROUNDSKEEPER
One Month Later
I wipe the sweat from my brow, though the morning’s cold seeps into my bones. The air’s too still. Too quiet.
Fifteen years, I’ve worked these grounds. Cutting back roses no one notices, pulling weeds like it matters, skimming broken champagne bottles off the lake from spoiled brats who’ll never acknowledge I even exist.
But today feels wrong. Like the trees are holding their breath. A flicker of movement in the mist catches my eye. I still and narrow my gaze toward the tree line.
It’s a fox. Thin. Patchy-furred. Something pale dangles from its mouth as it trots across the path. I squint. It drops whatever it’s carrying when it sees me, then bolts into the underbrush without a sound.
I step toward the thing it left behind.
My boots crunch along the gravel path, and then the grass dampens the sound. The fog thins just enough. And I freeze.
Because I see it. A hand. A human hand, curled, limp, the wrist jagged where it’s been torn or chewed clean through.Fingers gnawed to the bone. Skin slick and gray, like it’s been soaking in something for too long.
My stomach lurches.
No…no, that’s not…
I stagger back two steps, breathing shallow and sharp. My throat closes up as the stench hits. Sweet rot. Copper. Wet earth soaked in death.
I double over and vomit into the grass. It splashes hot and sharp, and I wipe my mouth with the back of my glove.
My head’s spinning. My ears ring. This can’t be real. It can’t.
But I force myself to look again. And there, just beyond the hand, is more.
A body. Half covered by brush and fog, but unmistakably human. Face down. Hair matted with mud. Limbs bent the wrong way. A torn dress—or nightgown maybe—barely clinging to its frame. The flesh is bloated, discolored. Bugs already swarming above it.
I choke on a scream. Stumble back again, nearly fall. My radio crackles on my hip, but I can’t move. Can’t breathe. I’ve worked here fifteen years, and I’ve never seen…
I clamp a hand over my mouth. Tears sting my eyes, and I blink too hard, trying to ground myself. Trying tobreathe.
I need to call someone. I need to run. I need to do something. But all I do is stare.
15
Princess
The scent of beeswax polish and herbes de Provence hangs in the air, just strong enough to mask the antique stillness of the room. The kind of stillness that’s curated, preserved. Like everything in this house, it’s meant to impress, not invite.
I sit on the edge of the cream settee, a porcelain cup of rose tea warming my hands. The low clink of glass echoes softly from the adjacent dining room, where the remnants of dessert sit untouched on crystal dishes. My book rests in my lap, but I haven’t read a word. I watch the flames dance inside the fireplace instead, letting them blur.
Across from me, my father sits in the tufted high-back chair near the lamp with the silk shade, the evening paper spread wide across his lap. He clears his throat once, folds a page, doesn’t speak. Mother perches on the armrest of the chaise, her gaze fixed on the television above the carved mantel. The evening news hums low, the volume almost theatrical in its restraint.
“Breaking news: this evening, the body of twenty-two-year-old Dana Hoffman, daughter of businessman Ernest Hoffman,was discovered in the woods near the Astoria Regent estate. Authorities estimate the time of death to be between three weeks and a month ago. The family had attended the charity gala held at the hotel approximately one month prior.”
Silence folds over the room like a curtain being drawn. I do not move. My pulse ticks like the second hand of the antique wall clock.
I remember the gala. The towering floral arrangements. The glittering chandeliers. Dana in her gown, laughing too loud, clutching a flute of champagne as if it could make her matter.
Mother sips her wine delicately, and with a sigh that’s equal parts disdain and performative grief, says, “How dreadful. That poor girl. I suppose you never know what goes on behind those charming smiles.” A pause. “And at the Astoria, no less.”
Father doesn’t look up from his paper. “Hoffman’s daughter was trouble. Always in the wrong place, with the wrong sort of people. If you ask me, her father should’ve reined her in years ago.”
I lower my gaze and tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.
