Chapter 5 - THE ACCIDENT THAT WASN’T
Vincent saw the photograph and became a different man.
Not louder.
Not more emotional.
Colder.
He took my phone, studied the image, then handed it to Anthony.
“Find where it was taken.”
Security moved immediately.
The twins were transferred into an armored SUV surrounded by three other vehicles.
I rode between Lucas and Leo.
Neither child knew why we were leaving so quickly.
Lucas thought it was exciting.
“Are we being chased?”
“No,” I said.
Leo looked at the security vehicle behind us.
“Then why does Uncle Anthony have six cars?”
“Because your father is dramatic.”
From the front passenger seat, Vincent glanced backward.
Despite everything, one corner of his mouth moved.
“Dramatic?”
“I considered another word.”
“Smart choice.”
The boys laughed.
That sound mattered.
It reminded all of us what we were protecting.
The second house was nothing like the estate.
It was still enormous by normal standards, but warmer.
Wood floors.
Family photographs.
A lake behind the property.
Apparently Isabella had preferred it.
The twins settled into one bedroom together.
By the next morning, Leo asked for eggs.
Lucas wanted to walk to the dock.
Their improvement wasn’t miraculous.
They were still thin.
Still easily tired.
But the difference was impossible to ignore.
Vincent recorded everything.
Meals.
Energy levels.
Headaches.
Sleep.
For the first time, he was watching the ordinary details I had mentioned during my interview.
At noon, independent pediatric specialists examined the boys in a private clinic.
No Dr. Blake.
No one connected to him.
Blood and environmental testing would take time, but the physicians agreed on one thing: removing the boys from a suspected exposure source had been appropriate.
That afternoon, Anthony arrived with news about Isabella’s accident.
Her vehicle had gone through a guardrail on a wet road four years earlier.
No other car had been officially identified.
The conclusion had been loss of control.
“Officially?” Vincent asked.
Anthony placed a folder on the dining table.
“A witness reported seeing a dark SUV behind her shortly before the crash.”
Vincent stared at him.
“I never knew that.”
“The statement was classified as unreliable.”
“Why?”
“The witness changed his story.”
Anthony pushed forward another page.
“He left Connecticut three days later.”
“Where is he now?”
“New Jersey.”
Vincent stood.
“Bring him here.”
“Already arranged.”
The witness, Samuel Price, arrived before dinner.
He was sixty-two and looked like a man who had spent four years expecting someone to knock on his door.
He recognized Vincent instantly.
“I’m sorry.”
Vincent did not offer him a seat.
“For what?”
Samuel’s hands shook.
“I should’ve told the truth.”
“What truth?”
“I saw the SUV.”
“You told police you weren’t sure.”
“I was sure.”
Vincent’s voice dropped.
“Why did you lie?”
Samuel looked toward Anthony.
Then at me.
Then back at Vincent.
“Because someone came to my house.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name. Big guy. Maybe thirty-five. He showed me pictures of my daughter leaving work.”
The room became very still.
“He told me weather causes accidents and people who misunderstand accidents sometimes create more of them.”
Vincent’s jaw flexed.
“Would you recognize him?”
Samuel nodded.
Anthony placed several photographs on the table.
Samuel touched one immediately.
Eric Sloan.
The missing maintenance supervisor.
Vincent looked at Anthony.
“Eric worked for Blake four years ago?”
“Under a different company.”
The connections were tightening.
But we still didn’t have proof Dr. Blake had ordered anything.
Then Samuel added, “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“The SUV didn’t hit her car.”
Vincent frowned.
“Then what happened?”
“It stayed close. Too close. I saw her brake. She was driving strangely before that.”
“Strangely how?”
“Like she was dizzy. She crossed the center line twice.”
I remembered Isabella’s recording.
Headaches.
Dizziness.
Symptoms worse in the east wing.
Maybe nobody had needed to sabotage her car.
Maybe prolonged exposure had already made driving dangerous.
The possibility devastated Vincent.
He sat down slowly.
That evening, the toxicology report arrived.
The physician called personally.
“I want to be cautious,” she said over speakerphone. “The environmental samples contain compounds associated with neurologic and gastrointestinal symptoms after repeated exposure in some circumstances. We cannot establish the boys’ diagnosis from an air sample alone.”
“But?” Vincent asked.
“But both children’s laboratory findings are consistent enough with environmental exposure that we recommend continued removal from the property and specialist follow-up.”
I closed my eyes.
Eighteen months.
The answer had been in the house.
Vincent stared through the window toward the lake.
“What happens now?”
“We monitor them. Some effects may improve after exposure stops. We need time.”
“Permanent damage?”
“Too early to know.”
His hand tightened around the phone.
After the call, he went outside alone.
I found him twenty minutes later sitting on the dock.
“Lucas is asking for you.”
“I’ll go in a minute.”
I sat beside him.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
“I paid Harrison millions,” he finally said.
“He treated Isabella.”
“I trusted him.”
“Yes.”
“I let him walk into my children’s bedrooms.”
“Yes.”
He turned toward me.
“You never soften anything.”
“Would you prefer a lie?”
“No.”
“That’s probably why you hired me.”
He looked back at the water.
“I hired you because you annoyed him.”
I smiled faintly.
“Also valid.”
Then his voice changed.
“Do you think Isabella died because of that system?”
“I think we know she was experiencing symptoms. We know she was investigating Blake. We know a man connected to Blake intimidated a witness.”
“But you won’t say more.”
“Not until there’s evidence.”
“You’d make a terrible member of my family.”
“Why?”
“We specialize in assuming the worst.”
Before I could answer, Anthony came onto the dock.
“Boss.”
Vincent stood.
“What?”
“We found Eric.”
“Where?”
“Rhode Island.”
“Get him.”
“He’s already in police custody.”
Vincent’s expression sharpened.
“For what?”
“Using a false identity.”
Anthony looked at me, then back at Vincent.
“And he had something in his car.”
“What?”
“A folder of photographs.”
He handed Vincent his phone.
The first photograph showed Isabella outside a laboratory four years earlier.
The second showed her entering the greenhouse.
The third showed Vincent at the estate.
Then came Lucas.
Leo.
And finally me.
My picture had been taken the morning I arrived.
Before I had ever noticed the vent.
I felt my skin go cold.
“They were watching me from the beginning.”
Anthony nodded grimly.
Vincent scrolled once more.
The final image was not a photograph.
It was a handwritten schedule.
At the top was tomorrow’s date.
Below it were two words.
TRANSFER BOYS.
May you like
And beside the words were the initials H.B.
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