CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The headlights carved a narrow tunnel through the darkness as Boyd Calloway’s sedan ate the miles between Kansas City and Trentville.
Each passing mile tightened the knot of anger in his chest — anger at the circumstances, at the unfortunate timing, but most of all at the sense of betrayal.
He’d bought and renamed the old Shannon mansion to rectify past evils, to recreate it as a symbol of his own status. Why was that being threatened now?
Boyd had stewed about that early morning phone call all day at work, and he’d left Kansas City as soon he could get away from the office.
Nolan Greer’s voice had been almost detached: “There’s been an incident, Mr. Calloway.
One of the tenants, Mrs. Marsh. Found her in her laundry room.
Paramedics say it looks like she slipped, hit her head. ”
“Dead?” Boyd had asked fearfully.
“Yes, sir. Sheriff’s department is here now.”
Even now, hours later, the news still hadn’t fully registered. Donna Marsh — widowed, particular about the water pressure, always asking about upgrades to the security system — dead on her laundry room floor. An accident, surely. It had to be an accident.
But apparently the sheriff’s department thought otherwise. Why else would they have wanted to seal off that laundry room? Why else would they start questioning the other residents?
Calloway House couldn’t afford a murder investigation.
Not with all the trouble they’d already had — the electrical issues, the plumbing problems, the complaints from tenants.
Boyd felt the familiar twinge in his chest at the thought and took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down.
So, Boyd had acted quickly that morning, drafting a letter to be signed by Mayor Simmons, hiring a local Trentville PI to investigate the situation and hopefully to throw a wrench in the police investigation.
The next troublesome call had come from Ethan Pierce at the Gateway Herald. That damn reporter had a nose for trouble and the moral compass of a scavenger. Boyd had tried to deflect, to minimize, to reframe, but Pierce had already caught the scent of something more than an ordinary accident.
“I’m just looking for your comment, Mr. Calloway,” Pierce had said, his voice dripping with false sincerity. “Given the history of the mansion and the, shall we say, persistent rumors about its renovation...”
“Mrs. Marsh’s death was a tragic accident,” Boyd had replied sternly. “Anything beyond that is irresponsible speculation.”
But Boyd knew perfectly well that Pierce wasn’t buying it. Tomorrow’s headline was already taking shape in his mind: “Death at Haunted Mansion: Curse Claims First Victim.” The Gateway Herald would sell out by noon.
A semi roared past in the opposite direction, its headlights momentarily flooding the car’s interior with harsh light. Boyd blinked against it, feeling the beginning of a headache forming.
And then had come the final blow — the call from Sheriff Graves herself.
“Mr. Calloway,” she’d said, her voice all business. “I wanted to speak with you directly about the situation at your property.”
“Of course, Sheriff. It’s a terrible tragedy. If there’s anything I can do to help— “
“There is, actually. You can explain why you felt the need to have Mayor Simmons authorize a private investigator before we’ve even determined if Mrs. Marsh’s death was suspicious.”
Boyd had stammered something about standard procedure, about protecting everyone’s interests, but Sheriff Graves hadn’t seemed impressed.
“There’s something else you should know,” she’d continued. “Those anonymous letters to the Trentville Weekly News? The ones signed by a ‘concerned citizen’ criticizing the Calloway House project? We’ve identified the author.”
When he’d made no comment, she’d continued.
“It’s your superintendent, Mr. Greer. He’s been writing them.”
The revelation had hit Boyd hard. Nolan Greer — the man he’d trusted with the day-to-day management of his prized project, the man who had access to every inch of the building, every system, every room. The man who had found Donna Marsh’s body.
Now, as his car ate up the final miles to Trentville, Boyd felt anger bubbling up again. He’d hired Greer based on his local knowledge, his experience with old buildings. Never once had it occurred to him that the man might have an agenda, might actually be working to undermine the entire project.
It all made sense now — the persistent maintenance issues that never seemed to get fully resolved, the rumors of strange noises that spooked the residents, the small but accumulating problems that had plagued the renovation from the start.
All of it could be traced back to Greer, methodically sabotaging the building from within.
A stabbing pain lanced through Boyd’s chest. He eased up on the gas, taking a deep breath. His cardiologist’s stern face flashed in his mind.
“Even your normal day-to-day business is too stressful,” Dr. Wexler had warned after his heart attack two years ago. “You need to consider retirement, Boyd. Your next attack could be your last.”
His 23-year-old girlfriend, Cindy Ruhl, more than agreed about retirement.
Of course, as he knew perfectly well, Cindy considered him an investment, just as he considered her a trophy.
And she wanted him to live at least long enough to marry her—an event that he kept putting off, much to her frustration.
But retirement meant surrender. It meant walking away from Calloway House before he’d fully reclaimed his family’s legacy. Before he’d erased the stain of what Pete Shannon had done to Amos Calloway all those decades ago.
Boyd pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the rapid flutter of his heart beneath his palm. Just a few more miles. He just needed to make it to Trentville, confront Greer, and salvage what he could of this situation. Then he could rest. Then he could consider slowing down.
The exit sign for Trentville appeared in his headlights.
Boyd Calloway took the turn, his mind set with determination.
He hadn’t come this far, hadn’t invested so much, only to have it all undermined by a vindictive handyman with a grudge.
Calloway House would survive this, just as he had survived his heart attack.
It had to. His legacy depended on it.
Boyd swung his sedan into the curved driveway of Calloway House, the mansion’s silhouette looming against the night sky. Restored gas lamps cast pools of amber light across the manicured grounds, illuminating the limestone facade and ornate woodwork that had cost him a fortune to restore.
The building stood proud and elegant, every inch the legacy he had envisioned. Yet as Boyd cut the engine and sat in sudden silence, he felt none of the usual satisfaction. Instead, a cold fury settled in his gut.
He pushed open the car door and stepped into the cool October night.
The grand entrance with its polished brass fixtures and restored oak door beckoned, but Boyd barely registered the details he normally took pride in.
His footsteps echoed on the stone path as he marched toward the entrance, each step fueled by the anger that had built during his drive from Kansas City.
The foyer greeted him with soft lighting and renewed elegance.
A far cry from the musty, decaying shell he’d purchased three years ago.
The building had been a challenge from the start — water damage, outdated wiring, structural issues that had eaten through his budget faster than anticipated.
But he’d persevered, driven by the symbolism of a Calloway reclaiming what a Shannon had stolen.
And all along, Nolan Greer had been working against him.
Boyd strode through the main hall toward the east wing where the staff quarters were located.
Nolan had been given a comfortable apartment on the ground floor — close to the boiler room and maintenance areas for convenience, Boyd had thought at the time.
Now he wondered how many “maintenance issues” had been manufactured right there in that apartment.
He reached Nolan’s door and didn’t bother knocking. The brass doorknob turned easily in his hand, and Boyd pushed the door open with enough force to send it banging against the wall.
“Greer! We need to— “
Boyd stopped mid-sentence, the words dying in his throat. Nolan Greer stood in the center of the room with a packed duffel bag at his feet. The apartment was nearly bare, personal items cleared from shelves and surfaces.
The superintendent wore his usual work clothes — khaki pants and a blue flannel shirt — but his perpetually tired eyes were alert now, watching Boyd with grim satisfaction.
“Mr. Calloway,” Nolan said, his voice flat. “I figured you’d be stopping by.”
Boyd stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. “Going somewhere?”
“I think we both know my employment here is finished.” Nolan turned away, zipping up the duffel bag. “Sheriff Graves found out I was behind those letters to the newspaper. As soon as she told me, I knew right away she’d tell you about them.”
“The letters are the least of it,” Boyd said, struggling to keep his voice level. “Maintenance issues that never get fixed? Equipment that mysteriously breaks down? Were you behind all of that too?”
Nolan stiffened, but he didn’t turn around. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Greer. You’ve been sabotaging this place from the start.”
“Can you prove that?” Now Nolan did turn, a challenging gleam in his eye. “Maybe this place is just what people always said it was — cursed. Maybe Pete Shannon doesn’t want it turned into luxury apartments for rich folks who don’t know the first thing about this town or its history.”
Boyd stepped closer, feeling the pulse pounding in his temples. “And what about Donna Marsh? Did she get in your way somehow? Find out what you were doing?”
“I had nothing to do with that. It was an accident.”
“An accident that happened in a building you’ve been systematically sabotaging?”
“Think what you want.” Nolan picked up the duffel bag and slung a strap over his shoulder. “But I didn’t kill her. I didn’t need to. This place was going to fail on its own — I just helped it along a little.”
Boyd’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Why? What did I ever do to you?”
Something dark and bitter crossed Nolan’s face then. He stepped closer to Boyd, close enough that Boyd could see the deep lines around his eyes, the gray at his temples.
“It’s not what you did. It’s what your precious Calloway House represents,” Nolan said, his voice low and intense.
“My great-grandfather worked in Pete Shannon’s mine, broke his back hauling coal while that bastard lived like a king up here on the hill.
His brother died when a shaft collapsed.
Shannon never paid a penny to his family—not even for his funeral. ”
Nolan gestured around the apartment. “And now here you come, turning this place into luxury condos, acting like you’re claiming some noble family legacy.
There’s nothing noble about this house. It was built on suffering.
It should have been torn down years ago, or turned into a memorial for the miners who died making Shannon rich. ”
Boyd felt the familiar pain starting to build in his chest. He pressed a hand against his sternum, trying to steady his breathing. “I didn’t know about your connection to the mine,” he said, his voice strained.
“Of course you didn’t,” Nolan replied with a bitter laugh. “Nobody from Kansas City ever bothers to learn the real history of this place. You just saw a business opportunity.”
“That’s not fair. My own ancestor was cheated by Shannon— “
“And got rich elsewhere,” Nolan cut him off. “Moved to Kansas City, built a new fortune. The miners’ families got nothing but graves to tend.”
Boyd opened his mouth to argue further, but the tightness in his chest warned him to calm down. This confrontation wasn’t worth another heart attack.
Nolan seemed to take his silence as confirmation.
He picked up his bag again and reached for another.
“I hope this place fails, Calloway. I hope it fails spectacularly. I hope the maintenance problems pile up until the residents all leave. I hope that woman’s death scares off any potential buyers.
I hope your fancy renovation becomes the money pit everyone in town predicted it would be. ”
He brushed past Boyd, bumping him on the way to the door. “And I hope you’re here to see it happen.”
Boyd turned, watching as Nolan gathered the last of his belongings. “You can’t just walk away. There are legal implications to what you’ve done.”
Nolan paused in the doorway, a sardonic smile twisting his lips. “Sue me, then. Make it public. Let everyone know how the superintendent sabotaged the great Calloway House restoration. I’m sure the Gateway Herald would love that story. So will the Trentville Weekly News.”
Boyd knew Nolan was right — a public legal battle would only bring more negative attention to the property, more whispers of curses and haunted halls.
Without another word, Nolan Greer walked out, his footsteps receding down the hallway.
Boyd stood alone in the empty apartment, the sudden silence ringing in his ears.
His superintendent was gone. Donna Marsh was dead.
And somewhere in the building, other residents were sleeping, unaware that the man responsible for maintaining their homes had just walked out.
Boyd felt the pain in his chest sharpen. He leaned against the wall, breathing slowly through his nose. In and out. In and out. Dr. Wexler’s voice echoed in his mind, warning him about stress, about pushing himself too hard.
But what choice did he have now?
He reminded himself about tomorrow morning’s meeting, which was going to be even more trouble than he’d expected.