Chapter 2 - The Whispering Laundry
The humid air of the laundry room smelled faintly of lemon bleach and old dust. I crouched by the stainless steel washing drum, my fingers hovering over the crumpled Egyptian cotton sheets. They hadn't been washed yet; they were merely shoved into the hamper, hidden beneath a pile of heavy bath towels as if someone hoped I wouldn't check.
My hands trembled as I pulled the sheet out into the harsh fluorescent light. Up close, the reddish-brown mark wasn't a single round spot. It had a jagged, smeared edge, as though something wet had been pressed heavily against the cloth and then hastily dragged away.
I brought the fabric close to my face, holding my breath, before forcing myself to inhale. It didn't smell like wine, nor did it smell like rust. It carried a metallic, coppery sharpness beneath the faint lavender detergent from the previous week's wash.
Blood. It was indisputably blood.
"Looking for something, Claire?"
I flinched so hard my knee cracked against the edge of the dryer. Margaret stood in the doorway, framed by the dim hallway light. She had swapped her elegant beige lace wedding suit for a dark floral housecoat, but her posture remained unnaturally rigid. She held a steaming mug of tea, her expression smooth, bland, and entirely devoid of the warmth she’d displayed to the wedding guests just hours prior.
"I... I was just going to start a load of laundry," I stammered, my voice sounding paper-thin even to my own ears. Quickly, I tried to fold the sheet back inward to hide the stain, but her sharp eyes had already tracked my movement.
"Don't bother yourself, dear," Margaret said, stepping into the room. Her slippers made no sound against the linoleum. "You're a guest in this house until the renovations on your townhome are finished. A new bride shouldn't be scrubbing linens. Give them to me."
She reached out, her long, manicured fingers extending toward the cotton. But I held my ground, pinning the cloth to my chest.
"Margaret," I said, forcing a calm into my chest that I didn't feel. "What happened on the bed last night? Ethan was bleeding. Or were you?"
For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped. Margaret’s pupils dilated, and her jaw tightened so hard I could see the faint muscle tick near her ear. Then, as quickly as it had vanished, her pleasant, vaguely patronizing smile returned.
"Oh, that?" She let out a small, soft laugh that sent a cold prickle down my spine. "Ethan has always had terrible nosebleeds when he’s stressed, Claire. Didn’t he tell you? The wedding planning, the heat... he woke up at two in the morning dripping all over the pillows. I had to help him clean it up. I stayed up with him because he was dizzy."
She took a step closer, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "He was embarrassed, you see. Men are so delicate about their weaknesses. He begged me not to make a fuss or wake you. He wanted to look strong for his new wife."
It was a plausible story. It was logical, neat, and explained both the blood and Ethan’s quiet shame. Yet, my gut screamed that it was a lie. Ethan had never had a nosebleed in the three years we had dated. Not during his stressful bar exams, not during our long-distance months, not ever.
"He could have told me," I whispered.
"Well, he didn't," Margaret said smoothly, taking the sheet firm in her grasp. She didn't yank it, but her grip was like iron. "Because he loves you, Claire. Now, run along upstairs. Ethan is in the study. He needs his wife, not a maid."
I let go of the fabric. Margaret immediately dropped it into the basin and turned on the tap, flooding the cloth with icy water before pouring cold detergent directly onto the dark stain, scrubbing it vigorously until the reddish mark dissolved into gray suds.
I walked out of the laundry room with my head spinning. The grand manor house—the Vance estate—felt vastly different now than it had when Ethan brought me here as his fiancée. Nestled in the rolling hills of northern Virginia, the estate was a sprawling brick structure built in the late 1920s, full of narrow corridors, creaking oak floors, and high ceilings that trapped cold air even in late spring.
I found Ethan sitting behind the massive mahogany desk in his father's old study. The room smelled of old leather and tobacco, though his father had been dead for over ten years. Ethan was staring blankly at an unlit fireplace, a half-empty glass of scotch sitting near his elbow.
"Ethan?"
He jumped, his hand jerking so violently he nearly knocked the glass over. He turned, his face pale, dark circles carved under his eyes like bruised hollows.
"Claire," he said, standing up quickly. "Hey. I... I was just reviewing some papers."
"Your mother said you had a nosebleed last night," I said directly, crossing the room until I stood opposite the desk. I watched his eyes closely.
Ethan blinked, looking confused for a split second before a look of forced realization crossed his features. "Right. Yeah. The nosebleed. It was... it was pretty bad. I’m sorry about the sheet. And I’m sorry about Mom taking the bed. I should have handled it better."
He was reciting a script. I knew Ethan better than I knew myself; I knew the tiny crease that appeared between his brows when he was hiding something, the way his left foot tapped rhythmically against the floor when he felt trapped. Both were happening right now.
"Ethan, look at me," I pleaded, reaching across the desk to cover his hand. His skin was ice cold. "You don't have to lie to me. If something happened last night—if your mother is sick, if there's a problem with the family, if you're in trouble—just tell me. We're married now."
Ethan looked down at our joined hands. His gold wedding band gleamed under the desk lamp. For a moment, his fingers tightened around mine, and I saw a flicker of genuine terror in his hazel eyes. He leaned in, opening his mouth to speak, his lips trembling.
"Claire, I—"
Before he could finish, the heavy oak door of the study swung open. Margaret stood in the threshold holding a tray of coffee and dry biscuits.
"Am I interrupting?" she asked softly, her gaze dropping instantly to our hands.
Ethan drew his hand back as if he had been burned. He stood up straight, his face smoothing into a blank, neutral mask. "No, Mom. Not at all. Claire was just checking on me."
"How sweet," Margaret said, placing the tray on the desk between us. "Ethan, your uncle Arthur is on the phone in the parlor. He wants to discuss the estate transfer papers before his flight back to London."
" right," Ethan muttered. He didn't look at me as he brushed past, his shoulder grazing mine in his haste to leave the room.
I was left alone with Margaret. She began pouring black coffee into two porcelain cups, the fine china clinking softly in the heavy silence.
"He's under a lot of pressure, Claire," Margaret said, her back turned to me. "The Vance legacy is a heavy burden. Ethan is fragile. He always has been, ever since his father passed. He needs stability. He doesn't need... suspicion."
"I'm not suspicious, Margaret," I replied, standing my ground. "I'm his wife. I care about him."
May you like
Margaret turned around slowly, holding out a cup of coffee toward me. Her eyes were hard as flints. "Then prove it by letting the past stay where it belongs. Don't dig around in dark corners, Claire. You might not like what comes out into the light."
I looked at the black liquid in the cup, then up at her icy smile. I didn't take the coffee. Instead, I turned on my heel and walked out of the study, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. Something deeply twisted was occurring inside this house, and whatever secret was bound up in that stained sheet was only the beginning.
