Chapter 4 - Simon's Last Move
"What did it say?" Doyle asked, stepping closer.
I folded the note before he could see it. "A joke about chess. Nothing important."
He studied my face a beat too long. "Anything else?"
"No."
He didn't push further, but something in his posture had changed — sharper, more alert. My mother didn't seem to notice. I noticed everything now.
*Do not trust the person who brought you to Ashcombe.*
There was only one person who'd brought me here. Charles Doyle.
That night, dinner sat mostly untouched on the table. Every small sound made me flinch — silverware against porcelain, wind against the windows, the old grandfather clock ticking in the hall like a countdown I couldn't see the end of.
By one in the morning, everyone had gone to their rooms. I locked my door, pulled out the black queen, and remembered how Simon used to rotate it when he was thinking hard during our games. Quarter turn left. Half turn right. Quarter turn left.
I copied the motion.
*Click.*
The base popped open, revealing a rolled strip of paper covered in numbers. A simple substitution code. It took me ten minutes to translate it by hand.
*SIMON NEVER TRUSTED DOYLE.*
My stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Below it: *THE LIBRARY. SECOND SHELF. RED BOOK. PAGE 214.*
I waited until the house went silent, then crept downstairs. Moonlight spilled across the library shelves. There were a dozen red spines staring back at me, and I remembered how Simon had always shelved his books by height instead of alphabet, just to be difficult.
The shortest red book was a Shakespeare collection. Page 214 had been cut hollow, and tucked inside was a small digital recorder.
I pressed play.
Static. Then Simon's voice, still strong, recorded when he'd had more strength than the man I'd known.
*"If you're hearing this, Nora, I'm gone. I'm sorry. There were things I couldn't tell you while I was alive, because everyone who knew the whole truth became a target. I trusted Charles Doyle once. He helped me set up the trust. But six weeks before I recorded this, I found out someone had accessed confidential files from his office. I don't know if he betrayed me on purpose or if someone got to him. But if he brings you to Ashcombe, assume Nathaniel already knows exactly where you are."*
Footsteps echoed in the hallway behind me. I killed the recording and spun around.
"Nora?" My mother stood in the doorway, pale in the moonlight. "What are you doing down here?"
I locked the door behind her and played the recording again. By the end, all the color had drained from her face.
"Doyle's staying in the east guest room," she said.
"Is he?"
We checked. His suitcase sat on the bed. He wasn't in it.
We ran to Edwin's room. Empty too, the bed untouched.
"Dad?" my mother called, panic climbing into her voice.
Every light in Ashcombe House went out at once.
Somewhere below us, glass shattered.
"Simon built a safe room," my mother whispered, grabbing my hand. "In the tower."
We ran. Halfway up the staircase, a flashlight beam swung toward us from below.
"Diane?" Doyle's voice, shaking. "Diane, it's me!"
My mother froze.
"Keep moving," I hissed, pulling her arm.
"Nathaniel's here!" Doyle shouted up at us. "We have to get out!"
Then a crash. The flashlight spun down the stairs and went dark.
We reached the tower room — a dusty old observatory with a telescope pointed toward the sea. My mother searched the walls frantically.
"Where's the safe room? I don't remember exactly—"
I looked at the telescope, then at the chess pieces still clutched in my fist. King. Queen. Tower.
"Rook," I said.
"What?"
"The tower's a rook, Mom. Simon loved his puzzles."
I found a brick with a tiny chess symbol carved into it and pressed. The wall clicked open, revealing a narrow chamber lined with monitors and emergency supplies. We locked ourselves inside.
One screen showed security footage from downstairs — the front gate, the library, the main hall. And there, sitting calmly across from a bloodied Doyle, was a tall man in an immaculate dark coat, pouring himself a drink like he owned the place.
He probably believed he did.
Nathaniel Colton. Elegant, controlled, handsome despite pushing seventy, exactly like every magazine photo I'd ever seen of him.
He looked directly into the camera and smiled, like he already knew we were watching.
Then a message flashed onto the security monitor, activating on its own.
Simon's face appeared, recorded weeks before he died, thinner than I remembered but with the same mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Hello, Em. If you're seeing this, then Nathaniel came to Ashcombe. And knowing my brother, he probably thinks he's already won."
May you like
Simon leaned toward the camera, and his smile widened.
"Good. That means he finally stepped exactly where I needed him to."
