Chapter 2 - THE EAST WING
Mrs. Harper’s towels hit the marble floor one by one.
For a few seconds, nobody bent to pick them up.
Vincent looked from the ventilation grate to his house manager.
“Margaret?”
Mrs. Harper swallowed.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Moretti.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
Her hands trembled as she gathered the towels. “I should take these to the laundry.”
She turned.
Vincent stepped into her path.
“You looked afraid when Claire mentioned the ventilation system.”
“I was startled.”
“You’ve worked for me seventeen years. I know what startled looks like.”
Mrs. Harper went pale.
Before she could respond, the bedroom door opened behind us.
A small boy stood there in navy pajamas.
He had Vincent’s dark hair and gray-green eyes, but his face was too thin for seven.
“Dad?”
Vincent changed instantly.
The hard edge disappeared from his voice.
“Hey, buddy.”
Lucas rubbed one eye.
“Leo feels sick again.”
I forgot the vent.
We entered the room.
Leo lay curled beneath a blue comforter, breathing shallowly through his mouth. His twin sat beside him immediately, even though Lucas himself looked exhausted.
“Stomach?” Vincent asked.
Leo nodded.
“And my head.”
I crouched beside the bed.
“Do you mind if I ask you a strange question?”
Leo looked suspiciously at me.
“Are you the new nanny?”
“If you don’t fire me in the next five minutes.”
That earned the tiniest smile.
Lucas whispered, “Dad fires people.”
Vincent gave me a look.
I smiled.
“Good to know.”
Then I turned serious.
“Leo, does your head hurt more in the morning, afternoon, or night?”
“Morning.”
Lucas answered for him.
“Mine too.”
“What about when you’re outside?”
The twins exchanged a glance.
Lucas shrugged.
“Sometimes it gets better.”
“Where do you feel best?”
This time Leo answered.
“At Grandpa’s lake house.”
Vincent frowned.
“You were sick there last summer.”
“Only the first day,” Lucas said.
Vincent went still.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Then we got better. Remember? We went fishing.”
Vincent looked at me.
I said nothing.
I didn’t have enough information yet.
But I had something.
A pattern.
“Where else?”
“The boat,” Leo said.
Lucas nodded. “And Aunt Sofia’s house.”
Vincent slowly straightened.
All places outside this estate.
Dr. Blake had probably asked the boys about pain, nausea, appetite and fatigue.
But had anyone asked where they felt better?
I opened the bedroom window.
Cool September air entered the room.
Almost immediately, the sweet artificial scent became weaker.
Vincent noticed.
“So you do smell it,” I said.
Now he did.
Barely.
But enough.
He stepped toward the vent.
“What the hell is that?”
Mrs. Harper stood in the doorway.
Her face had become gray.
“Mr. Moretti—”
Vincent turned.
“Tell me.”
She looked at the boys.
“Not here.”
That was enough for me.
“Lucas, Leo, how would you feel about a camping adventure?”
Lucas blinked.
“Inside?”
“Best kind. No bugs.”
Vincent understood immediately.
“There are guest rooms in the west wing.”
I nodded.
“Far from this ventilation zone?”
“Separate climate system.”
“Good.”
Dr. Blake arrived forty minutes later.
He was furious.
“You moved them?”
“They’re sleeping in the west wing tonight,” Vincent said.
“On whose medical advice?”
“Mine,” I replied.
Dr. Blake stared at me.
“You do not possess medical authority.”
“No. But a father possesses the authority to move his children into another bedroom.”
“You’re encouraging paranoia.”
I folded my arms.
“And you’re strangely upset about two children sleeping forty yards away.”
His jaw tightened.
Vincent stood near the fireplace, frighteningly quiet.
“What is in the east-wing air system, Harrison?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you defensive?”
“Because you’re letting a nanny interfere with a complex medical investigation.”
I glanced at him.
“Have the boys ever spent more than forty-eight consecutive hours away from this property since you started treating them?”
He looked at Vincent rather than me.
“That’s irrelevant.”
“Have they?”
“I don’t keep a travel diary.”
Vincent did.
He opened his phone.
“July tenth through July fourteenth. My father’s lake house. Both boys improved.”
Dr. Blake sighed.
“Children with chronic conditions experience fluctuations.”
“Christmas,” Vincent continued. “Three nights at Sofia’s house. Their appetites improved.”
“That proves nothing.”
“March. Boston. Hospital tests. Leo had enough energy afterward to walk three blocks.”
Dr. Blake’s expression barely changed.
Barely.
But I saw it.
He was calculating.
That frightened me more than anger would have.
Vincent saw it too.
“I want the ventilation system shut down.”
“No,” Blake said too quickly.
Silence filled the room.
Vincent’s voice became dangerously soft.
“Excuse me?”
Blake recovered.
“Sudden environmental changes could complicate symptom tracking.”
“Then track this.”
Vincent took out his phone.
“Anthony?”
His security chief answered immediately.
“Shut down the entire east-wing HVAC system. Nobody enters the mechanical rooms until an independent engineer arrives.”
Blake stepped forward.
“Vincent.”
“And revoke Dr. Blake’s unrestricted property access.”
The doctor stared at him.
“You cannot seriously believe—”
“I don’t know what I believe.”
Vincent moved closer.
“But until I know why my children seem healthier everywhere except their own home, nobody gets the benefit of my trust.”
Blake’s eyes moved toward me.
For the first time, the arrogance was gone.
Something colder replaced it.
Fear.
He collected his bag.
“This woman is going to create chaos in your family.”
I held his gaze.
“If asking questions creates chaos, the chaos was already here.”
He left.
That evening, the twins ate grilled cheese sandwiches in the west-wing guest suite.
Leo finished almost half of his.
Mrs. Harper found me after midnight.
I was writing observations at the dining table when she quietly closed the door behind her.
“I should have said something earlier,” she whispered.
“About the smell?”
She nodded.
“How long?”
“Almost two years.”
My pen stopped.
“The boys have been sick for eighteen months.”
“I know.”
I looked at her.
“Who told you not to say anything?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Dr. Blake.”
The name did not surprise me.
What she said next did.
“He told us it was a therapeutic filtration system. Mrs. Moretti had approved something similar before she died.”
“Isabella?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Harper lowered her voice.
“But six weeks before her accident, she changed her mind.”
“Why?”
“She started having headaches.”
A cold sensation moved through me.
“What happened?”
“She argued with Dr. Blake in the upstairs gallery.”
“You heard them?”
“Only part.”
“What did Isabella say?”
Mrs. Harper closed her eyes, remembering.
“She said, ‘You told me it was harmless.’”
I felt the room change around me.
“And Blake?”
“He said she didn’t understand the science.”
“What happened after that?”
Mrs. Harper hesitated.
Then she whispered, “Mrs. Moretti ordered the system removed.”
I looked toward the ceiling.
The vents hummed faintly in the rest of the mansion.
“But it wasn’t removed.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Her next words came barely above a breath.
“Because after Isabella died, Dr. Blake told the staff Mr. Moretti had personally ordered it turned back on.”
I stood.
“Did Vincent?”
Mrs. Harper shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
We both turned.
Nobody was there.
But when I opened the door, I caught the faintest trace of that sweet floral smell.
And at the far end of the corridor, the service elevator doors were closing.
May you like
Someone had been listening.
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