Diego reminiscing about his day

Diego

Diego sat on the edge of the couch with his knees bouncing with anxiety. The living room was dead quiet except for the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the occasional car rolling past outside. Every few seconds he flicked his eyes to the front window, waiting for headlights or the sound of tires on gravel. Lucia had texted him twenty minutes ago: “On the way. Don’t do anything stupid.” That was it. No questions, no emojis, no bullshit. Just her usual clipped way of talking even when she was texting.

He kept replaying the morning in his head because if he didn’t, the silence gave too much room for everything else to rush in.

After Valeria left for the Whitmore place that morning, Diego had grabbed his hoodie and slipped out the back door. He’d planned to tail her on foot until he could catch a cab, then figure out how to get inside the estate. Stupid plan, but he was past caring about smart. He just needed to see what Chase was up to. Needed to scream at him. Needed something to happen that wasn’t more waiting.

He didn’t even make it to the end of the street.

A man in a long grey trench coat stepped out from between two parked cars and blocked his path. Fedora pulled low, surgical mask up over his nose. Diego froze, already calculating how fast he could sprint back to the house.

The man raised both hands, palms out.

“Master Diego,” he said quietly. “Please. Inside. Quickly.”

Diego almost bolted anyway, but something in the voice, calm, familiar in a way he couldn’t place, made him hesitate.

The man followed him back to the front door without another word, closed it behind them both, then reached up and pulled off the hat and mask in one smooth motion.

Harold.

The Whitmore Butler. The same man who’d opened the door for Valeria that first time she went to confront them. The same man who’d been fired the next day.

Diego stared. “You’re—”

“I’m Harold, formerly in service to the Whitmore family.” Harold’s voice was low, measured, the same politeness he’d always had. But his eyes were tired. Sunken. Like he hadn’t slept properly in days. “I’ve been watching the house since the past few days. I needed to speak with you before you did something reckless.”

Diego’s mouth opened, closed. “How did you even—”

“I know where you live. I followed Dr. Rivera when she came yesterday. I remember the street.” Harold glanced toward the window, then back. “Chase has eyes on this place now. You’re lucky I reached you first.”

Diego felt the floor shift under him. “What the hell is going on?”

Harold exhaled through his nose. “Something I still don’t fully understand. But I’ve seen enough.”

He told Diego everything in short, careful sentences, like he was reading from a report.

Kendra Whitmore had changed overnight. One morning she was the same sharp-edged woman who’d been firm but kind; the next she was wearing a fetish maid uniform, calling Chase “Master” and firing Harold without looking him in the eye. No explanation. No emotion.

Arthur Whitmore had stopped coming home entirely. Harold hadn’t seen him return. The staff whispered that he’d moved into a hotel downtown, that he was “avoiding drama” of some kind. Harold didn’t believe it. He believed Chase had done something to him too, though he hadn’t witnessed it.

And then there was Dr. Rivera.

Harold had been hiding near the estate gates, trying to decide whether to leave town or try to help, when he saw Valeria arrive that morning. He’d followed at a distance, slipped through a service entrance he still had the code for and watched from the hallway outside one of the sitting rooms.

Chase had been there. So had Valeria.

Harold described it in clipped, clinical terms: Chase speaking in a slow, even rhythm. Valeria’s shoulders gradually relaxing. Her eyes glazing. How chase had put her under and had her entire body going limp like a cut string.

“I left before they noticed me,” Harold said. “But I saw enough. Whatever he’s using, it’s in his room. Perhaps it’s a book. I saw him reading it the night he first changed Mrs. Whitmore. If you want answers, if you want any chance of getting your mother back, that book is where you’ll find them.”

Diego’s throat felt tight. “Why are you telling me this?”

Harold looked away for the first time. His jaw worked like he was chewing on something bitter.

“Because I served that family for twenty-three years. Mrs. Whitmore was difficult sometimes, but she was never cruel. Not like this. And your mother…” He paused. “Your mother came to that house to protect you. She didn’t deserve what he’s done to her.”

Diego noticed the way Harold’s hands stayed clasped behind his back, the way his shoulders sagged just slightly when he spoke of Mrs. Whitmore. It wasn’t just duty. It was guilt. Regret. Maybe even grief.

“I can drive you to the estate,” Harold said. “Drop you at the service gate. After that I’m leaving the city. I won’t stay where he can find me. I’ve seen what he does to people who cross him.”

Diego didn’t answer right away. He just stood there feeling small and angry and terrified all at once.

Eventually he nodded.