Chapter 1: The Mansion’s Echo

I am Henry Knox, and I died in the Whitehall Mansion. The scent of old wood polish and cold marble still clings to my memory, as if the mansion itself refuses to let me go.

The words hammer at the back of my mind, relentless—like a radio stuck on a single, static-choked frequency.

When I blink open my eyes, I’m back an hour earlier, seated across from Charles Harris in his Capitol Hill townhouse, the chipped crown molding overhead and the faint smell of burnt toast lingering from breakfast. Charles is working his charm, trying to lure me in.

Cold sweat beads on my forehead. My shirt clings, the collar rough against the back of my neck. The old wall clock ticks, each second sounding like a countdown.

"The President’s returned victorious. Even if you’re under the weather, you need to pull yourself together and head over to the mansion to offer your congratulations," Charles says, voice smooth.

I watch Charles’s eyes flicker—he was spinning a story, and I could feel the lie tightening around me like a noose. The President was still out, putting down an uprising. He hadn’t returned at all.

My pulse pounds. The metallic taste of adrenaline bites at my tongue. I’m already plotting my next move—how to escape this disaster before it clamps shut.

Charles reaches out, his hand heavy and practiced, landing on my shoulder. "Feeling any better?" He’s all concern, but his thumb taps nervously against my jacket.

I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead, hoping the tremble in my voice would sell the act. My heart thudded so loudly I worried Charles might hear it. "Councilman Harris, I really can’t get up. The President’s generous—he won’t blame me."

Charles’s posture loosens, just a little. "Then rest. I’ll go and report to the President."

He turns and leaves. The door’s click is too loud in the hush. I let out a shaky breath and stare at the wall. The faint hum of the air conditioner is the only thing keeping me tethered to the present.

Last time, my death was too awful. My whole body aches. I just want to rest, even if it’s only for a moment.

Suddenly, a rope slips around my neck. The pain is instant, suffocating, cutting off everything except panic. Charles leans close, his hand trembling, eyes shining with something like regret as his grip lingers too long. His voice cracks, a sob twisted with laughter: "Why do you defy Louise, why…"

I want to ask what I ever did to anger that cold-blooded woman, but the world’s already going dim.

At least this time, I die a little quicker than last.