Chapter 2 - THE SMELL BETWEEN THE WALLS
I stood in the hallway between Jacob and Jonah’s bedrooms and inhaled again.
Sweet.
Sharp.
Almost pleasant at first.
Then metallic underneath.
Nathan watched me.
“What?”
“That smell.”
“I don’t smell anything.”
“It’s faint.”
He stepped closer to the ventilation grate.
Nothing in his expression changed.
I crouched.
The brass grate was expensive, decorative, polished often enough that I could see my reflection in it.
“Does this vent connect directly to the central system?”
Nathan’s hesitation lasted perhaps half a second.
Most people would have missed it.
I didn’t.
“I assume so.”
“You assume?”
“This house has forty-seven rooms, Emily.”
“And two sick children.”
His eyes hardened.
I had been employed less than twenty minutes.
Apparently I had already reached the portion of the interview where getting fired became a realistic possibility.
I stood.
“When were the boys’ rooms last renovated?”
“After Rebecca died.”
“Why?”
Nathan looked toward the closed bedroom doors.
“I wanted them closer together.”
“That required ventilation work?”
Another pause.
This one longer.
“Security modifications were made.”
There it was.
“What kind?”
“That isn’t relevant.”
I looked directly at him.
“You have spent three million dollars because nobody knows why your sons are getting weaker.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“Then everything around them is relevant.”
He stared at me.
Behind him, Mrs. Bennett had appeared at the end of the hallway.
Her face looked horrified.
People probably did not tell Nathan Coleman that his answers were inadequate.
I had spent years caring for frightened children.
A wealthy criminal with excellent tailoring did not frighten me as much as two six-year-olds whose bodies were failing for no known reason.
Nathan finally said, “There’s a protected room beneath this wing.”
I blinked.
“A panic room?”
“Something like that.”
“Does it share air with these rooms?”
“No.”
Too fast.
“How do you know?”
“Because I had it built.”
That answer should have reassured me.
Instead, it did the opposite.
I turned toward the nearest bedroom.
“May I meet them?”
Nathan nodded.
Jacob was awake.
He lay against several pillows reading a book about sharks.
His twin slept in the next bed.
Identical faces.
Dark hair.
Gray-blue eyes.
But the first thing I noticed was how thin they were.
Jacob looked up.
“You’re new.”
“I am.”
“How long will you stay?”
Nathan’s face changed behind me.
I smiled.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re terrible.”
Jacob considered this.
“Jonah bites.”
From the other bed came a tired voice.
“Liar.”
I smiled despite myself.
Jonah opened one eye.
“We scared the last nanny.”
“How?”
“We threw oatmeal.”
Jacob corrected him.
“You threw oatmeal.”
“At Dr. Reeves.”
That made me like them immediately.
Nathan rubbed his forehead.
“I had forgotten that.”
“You were there,” Jacob said.
“I was trying to forget.”
The boys smiled.
Then Jonah coughed.
Not violently.
Dry.
Repeated.
Nathan’s amusement vanished.
I walked closer.
“How long does that happen?”
Jacob answered.
“Mostly mornings.”
“Anywhere else?”
He frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“At school?”
“We don’t go now.”
“At the hospital?”
Jonah shook his head.
“Not much.”
Nathan looked at me.
I continued.
“When you stay somewhere else?”
“We don’t.”
“You never travel?”
Jacob looked at his father.
Nathan’s expression became guarded.
“Not recently.”
“What about hospital admissions?”
He answered carefully.
“They often improve.”
Dr. Reeves had apparently explained that through hydration, rest and medication.
Maybe.
But children who improved away from home deserved a second question.
What changed when they came back?
I walked toward the window.
Closed.
“Do these open?”
“No,” Nathan said.
“Why?”
“Security.”
Of course.
Sealed windows.
Connected ventilation.
Hidden room beneath the bedrooms.
Sweet chemical odor.
I looked toward the beds.
“How long do they spend in here?”
“Most of the day when they’re tired.”
“So the sicker they become, the more time they spend in the place where they became sick.”
Nathan’s face tightened.
“That sounds accusatory.”
“It’s observational.”
Mrs. Bennett cleared her throat.
“Mr. Coleman, Dr. Reeves left specific instructions that the boys remain on bed rest until Monday.”
I looked at her.
“Do they ever spend an entire day outside this wing?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because they tire.”
I looked at Nathan.
“I want them moved.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You have been in my house thirty minutes.”
“And I’m already asking the obvious question.”
“You think the room is poisoning them?”
“I think I don’t know.”
That mattered.
“I am not diagnosing anyone. I’m asking whether symptoms change when their environment changes.”
Nathan stared at me.
“You want me to move medically fragile children because you noticed a smell.”
“Yes.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Then prove me wrong.”
Silence.
Jonah looked between us.
“Are you fighting?”
Nathan answered.
“Yes.”
I answered.
“No.”
Jacob smiled.
“Dad’s losing.”
Nathan slowly looked at his son.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
Then Jacob’s smile faded.
“Can we move?”
Nathan’s expression changed.
“Why?”
Jacob glanced toward the vent.
“I don’t like the smell either.”
The hallway seemed to become colder.
Nathan stepped toward him.
“You smell something?”
Jacob nodded.
“What?”
“Like the garage.”
Nathan went completely still.
“What garage?”
“The downstairs one.”
Nathan’s face lost color.
I noticed.
So did Jacob.
“Dad?”
Nathan straightened.
“Nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing.
Not anymore.
He walked into the hall and pulled out his phone.
“Marco.”
Someone answered immediately.
“Shut down the ventilation to the east children’s wing.”
Mrs. Bennett gasped.
Nathan continued.
“Move Jacob and Jonah to the south guest suite. Open the exterior windows before they arrive.”
He looked at me.
“Anything else?”
“Fresh bedding from storage that has never been in this wing.”
He repeated the instruction.
Then he turned toward Mrs. Bennett.
“No one informs Reeves.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Sir?”
“No one.”
That told me more than anything else had.
Nathan was no longer merely testing my idea.
He was testing his doctor.
Within forty minutes, the twins were moved.
Nathan personally carried Jonah when the child became too tired to walk.
The feared mafia boss held his six-year-old son with one arm beneath his knees and the other supporting his back as if he were carrying glass.
Jacob walked beside me.
Halfway down the staircase, he whispered, “Dad pretends he isn’t scared.”
I looked at Nathan.
“I noticed.”
“He stays awake at night.”
“You notice a lot.”
Jacob shrugged.
“Nobody thinks kids do.”
That sentence stayed with me.
The south guest suite smelled like cold winter air.
We opened the windows for ten minutes, then warmed the room.
The boys ate soup.
Jonah fell asleep.
Jacob asked for cards.
At eight that evening, Nathan found me writing notes.
“What are you doing?”
“Documenting symptoms.”
“For whom?”
“For me.”
He read over my shoulder.
8:05 p.m. — Jonah reports headache less severe.
8:11 — Jacob asked for second serving.
8:24 — no coughing observed.
Nathan stared.
“You think this is significant?”
“I think one evening proves nothing.”
He seemed almost disappointed.
Then I added, “But tomorrow morning might.”
At 6:17 a.m., someone pounded on my door.
I opened it.
Nathan stood there in shirtsleeves.
His expression was unlike anything I had seen the day before.
“Come.”
We went to the guest suite.
Both boys were awake.
Jacob was sitting up.
Jonah was standing.
Standing.
Barefoot on the carpet.
Nathan stared at him as though he were witnessing a miracle.
Jonah smiled uncertainly.
“My legs don’t hurt as much.”
Nathan looked at me.
I felt a chill.
One night.
Too fast to prove everything.
More than enough to justify questions.
Then Mrs. Bennett appeared.
“Mr. Coleman?”
“What?”
“Dr. Reeves is at the gate.”
Nathan’s face hardened.
“He wasn’t scheduled.”
“No.”
“What does he want?”
She hesitated.
“He says he received an alert that the east-wing ventilation system was shut down.”
I slowly turned toward Nathan.
Nathan slowly turned toward me.
I asked the obvious question.
“Why would your sons’ doctor receive an alert from your ventilation system?”
Nathan did not answer.
May you like
But the anger in his eyes told me something very important.
He hadn’t known.
