Chapter 3 - The Broken Watch
Clara knelt alone on the freezing foyer floor, armed with a basin of bleach water and clean rags. The pungent chemical scent stung her nostrils, mingling sickeningly with the iron smell of blood. She scrubbed the crimson pool from the marble tile, her hands shaking so violently that water sloshed over the rim of the bucket.
Beneath the carved oak console table near where Christian had landed, something glinted faintly. Clara set her rag down and crawled forward, reaching into the dust-shadowed space beneath the ornate woodwork.
Her fingers touched cold steel. She pulled it out.
It was a broken wristwatch—a heavy, rose-gold chronograph with a shattered sapphire face. But Christian had been wearing his vintage Patek Philippe when he fell; she had felt the leather strap beneath her fingers when checking his pulse. This watch was different. It bore a distinctive engraving on the clasp: J.W.
Julian Whitfield.
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A cold dread settled heavily in the pit of her stomach. The watch hadn't dropped from Christian; it had been torn from his attacker’s wrist during a desperate struggle on the mezzanine ledge. Footsteps clicked softly across the marble behind her. Clara instinctively shoved the heavy timepiece deep into the pocket of her apron, pulling her scrubbing cloth over her knees just as a shadow stretched over her.
""Find anything interesting down there, Clara?"" Julian Whitfield’s voice was smooth as velvet, but his cuff was rolled up, concealing his bare right wrist.
