Chapter 2 - THE ROOM ADRIAN NEVER OPENED
The next morning, I asked Adrian about the locked room.
His reaction told me more than his answer.
“No.”
One word.
Immediate.
Final.
We were in his study.
Rain tapped against the windows.
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
“I know what you’re asking.”
“Evan sits outside that door at night.”
Adrian looked down at the papers on his desk.
“That room belonged to my wife.”
“I figured that out.”
“It stays locked.”
“Why?”
His eyes lifted.
“That is not part of your job.”
There it was.
The wall.
I leaned back.
“Then the behavior around it becomes part of my job.”
His jaw tightened.
I continued.
“Your oldest son believes his mother told him not to trust anyone in this house.”
Something flickered in Adrian’s face.
Fear.
Not anger.
“Evan told you that?”
“Yes.”
“He misunderstood her.”
“Maybe.”
Adrian stood.
“Do not discuss Elena’s death with the boys.”
“You mean their mother?”
His expression sharpened.
“You’re here for seventy-two hours.”
“Then you have seventy-one left to fire me.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he said:
“Elena died in a car accident.”
“Was Evan there?”
“No.”
“Did he see something?”
“No.”
“Then why does he think differently?”
Adrian looked toward the window.
“Because someone has been feeding him stories.”
That changed everything.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
The admission clearly cost him.
Adrian Vale was a man accustomed to knowing everything inside his own walls.
Someone whispering to his children without his knowledge was a threat he couldn’t tolerate.
That afternoon, I watched instead of intervening.
I noticed Luke refused to drink milk unless Noah poured it.
Caleb checked door handles twice before entering rooms.
Evan never turned his back on security guards.
Those weren’t random habits.
They were fear habits.
At dinner, a housekeeper named Mrs. Bell dropped a spoon.
Luke dove under the table.
Not flinched.
Dove.
Adrian stood so quickly his chair hit the wall.
“Luke?”
The boy covered his ears.
I got onto the floor.
“Hey.”
He wouldn’t look at me.
I didn’t touch him.
“Tell me five blue things.”
Nothing.
“Five.”
His breathing slowed slightly.
“Your shirt.”
“Good.”
“The plate.”
“Good.”
“The curtains.”
By the fifth object, he crawled out.
Later, after everyone slept, Mrs. Bell found me in the kitchen.
“You handled that well.”
“How often does he do it?”
She looked toward the hallway.
“Since Mrs. Vale died.”
“What happened that night?”
Her face closed.
“Ask Mr. Vale.”
“I did.”
“Then stop asking.”
She walked away.
But twenty minutes later, when I returned to my room, something had been pushed beneath the door.
A photograph.
Elena Vale.
Beautiful.
Dark hair.
Holding baby Luke.
On the back, someone had written:
SHE KNEW SHE WAS GOING TO DIE.
And beneath that:
THE WRONG CAREGIVER FOUND THIS LAST YEAR.
I turned the photograph over again.
May you like
In the lower corner was a date.
Three days before Elena’s fatal accident.
