Chapter 3

10:00 PM.

The mansion was so quiet I could hear the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

I had sent the housekeeper home early.

I walked over to the mahogany liquor cabinet.

On the very top shelf sat a bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti.

Garrett had bought it two years ago.

He didn't know anything about wine; he just knew it was incredibly expensive. He had brought it home to please me, only to be met with my biting sarcasm.

I had told him, "Someone who drinks cheap draft beer like water would only ruin a wine like this. Don't touch it. You'll get your dirty hands all over my bottle."

Since then, he had never touched that cabinet again.

I uncorked the bottle and poured the deep red liquid into a crystal decanter.

Holding my glass, I took a slow walk through the mansion that no longer held Garrett.

It was far too quiet.

Usually, around this time, Garrett would just be getting back from the mines.

He would open the front door with extreme caution, standing at the entryway to change his shoes.

He would leave his mud-caked work boots outside on the porch, walking in on his socks, terrified of leaving a single mark on my spotless floors.

Then, he would call out in his booming voice, "Chloe! I'm home!"

"The cafeteria at the mine had some great garlic bread today, but don't worry, I didn't eat any. Didn't want to gross you out."

Then he would disappear into the bathroom, scrubbing himself raw with heavy soap, washing at least three times before he dared to even stand near me, asking sheepishly:

"Chloe... can I sleep on the bedroom floor tonight?"

But tonight, there were no muddy footprints in the foyer.

There was no sound of running water from the master bath.

No pleading, gentle voice.

I took a sip of the wine.

It was silky smooth, with notes of dark berries and oak.

This was the life I wanted. No coal dust, no loud, uncouth noises.

I pushed open the door to his study.

This room had always been Garrett’s private space, a place I rarely entered.

But I knew he kept a locked drawer in his desk.

I had always assumed he kept a secret stash of cash in there, or maybe photos of some girls he met at the local bars. After all, isn't that what all rich rednecks did?

Now that he was dead, there was nothing left to hide.

I grabbed a crowbar from the utility closet and pried the lock open.

The drawer slid out.

There was no cash. No photos of other women.

Just a pile of random, bizarre junk.

Hundreds of broken, blunt pencil stubs of varying lengths, piled up in a corner.

And a thick stack of crumpled, cheap yellow legal paper—the kind miners used to keep inventory.

The sheets of paper were covered in messy, dark charcoal smudges.

They were caked in black coal dust.

I frowned, picking up one of the pages.

The black dust instantly stained my fingertips.

With a grimace, I shook my hand.

The paper showed a messy, dark sketch. The lines were chaotic and thick; I couldn't even make out what it was supposed to be.

Garrett was basically illiterate. He could barely write his own name. Why on earth was he trying to draw?

The drawer smelled heavily of damp earth and sulfur.

"A leopard never changes its spots," I thought bitterly. "Even living in a multi-million dollar mansion, he couldn't leave his coal behind."

I scooped up the papers along with the broken pencil stubs and threw them all into the trash can.

A cloud of black dust billowed into the air.

I held my breath, took a few steps back, and used a wet wipe to scrub my fingers.

The black soot was stubborn, lodged deep in the ridges of my skin.

A wave of irritation washed over me.

I unlocked my phone and opened Snapchat, wanting to find someone to talk to.

I remembered a young artist I had met at a gallery downtown. He was clean, soft-spoken, and refined.

I scrolled past a contact pinned near the top of my chat list—a contact I had labeled "The Coal Dust."

My finger hovered over the screen.

His profile picture was a dark, grainy photo of a mine shaft entrance.

Whenever I used to ignore his calls, he would send me endless messages...

"Hey Chloe, I'm just at the entrance of the shaft. Got some signal here. Did you eat dinner yet?"

I locked my phone.

I tossed it onto the sofa.

Looking at my half-empty wine glass, the rich taste suddenly felt incredibly bland.

I looked out into the empty living room and whispered, "Garrett, you are so annoying. Even dead, you leave your trash for me to clean up."