Chapter 1 - THE FOOT THAT SHOULD NOT HAVE MOVED
Martha did not touch the cold tap again.
Neither did Maxwell.
For several seconds, the only sound in the bathroom was water running through the overflow drain.
His right foot had moved.
She knew what she saw.
So did he.
That was the problem.
Maxwell slowly lowered his eyes toward his leg.
Then back to her.
“Leave.”
His voice had changed.
Not louder.
More dangerous.
Martha stood.
“Mr. Rourke—”
“Now.”
She should have obeyed.
Instead, her old rehabilitation instincts returned.
“When was the last time that happened?”
His expression went completely still.
There.
Confirmation.
Not the movement.
The fear.
“You’re fired.”
“I probably am.”
She picked up the towels.
“But if you’ve been having movement below your injury level, your doctor needs to know.”
“My doctor knows everything he needs to know.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Maxwell’s jaw tightened.
People probably did not speak to him that way often.
Maybe ever.
“Who exactly do you think you are?”
“Today?”
She looked at the mop bucket outside the bathroom.
“Apparently housekeeping.”
Something almost changed in his face.
Not amusement.
Close.
Then he said:
“You worked medical care.”
It was not a question.
Martha nodded.
“Long-term rehabilitation.”
“What happened?”
She hated the question.
“I’m not licensed anymore.”
“That also wasn’t what I asked.”
Fair.
She looked away.
“A medication error.”
“Yours?”
“On paper.”
His eyes sharpened.
Before he could ask more, footsteps sounded in the hallway.
A woman entered.
Tall.
Elegant.
Forties.
Red hair.
Miss Delaney.
Maxwell’s longtime house manager.
“What is happening?”
Martha immediately stepped back.
“Nothing.”
Maxwell looked at her.
Interesting.
He did not expose what she had seen.
Delaney frowned.
“You were told to leave the towels.”
“I did.”
“Then go downstairs.”
Martha turned.
Behind her, Maxwell said:
“Martha.”
She stopped.
It was the first time he had used her name.
She looked back.
He held her gaze.
“Come to my study at seven.”
Delaney stared at him.
“Why?”
Maxwell answered without looking at her.
“I have questions.”
Martha left.
For the rest of the afternoon, she cleaned silver and tried not to imagine what happened to employees summoned privately by Maxwell Rourke.
At seven precisely, she entered his study.
He sat behind an enormous desk in his wheelchair.
No bodyguards.
No Delaney.
Only Maxwell.
On the desk sat a medical folder.
“My doctors say the spinal cord injury is complete.”
Martha remained standing.
“Complete injuries don’t usually produce voluntary withdrawal.”
“It wasn’t voluntary.”
“Maybe.”
He frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Cold water can trigger reflex movement.”
Relief appeared for half a second.
Then she continued.
“But your reaction looked directional.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Explain.”
“You moved away from the cold.”
Silence.
“Have you felt anything?”
“No.”
Too fast.
“Pressure?”
“No.”
“Tingling?”
“No.”
“Temperature?”
“No.”
“Pain?”
His face changed.
Tiny.
There.
Martha leaned forward.
“You have.”
Maxwell looked toward the dark windows.
“Sometimes at night.”
“How long?”
“Four months.”
She stopped breathing.
“What do you feel?”
“Burning.”
“Where?”
“Right thigh. Sometimes my foot.”
“Does your doctor know?”
“No.”
“Why?”
He looked directly at her.
“Because the first time I mentioned twitching, my medication was increased.”
Martha’s skin went cold.
“What medication?”
He slid the folder toward her.
She read the list.
Muscle relaxant.
Neuropathic pain medication.
Sedative.
Then one drug made her pause.
A dosage far higher than she expected.
“When did they raise this?”
“Four months ago.”
Exactly when the movement started.
Martha looked up.
“Who prescribed it?”
Maxwell’s answer came quietly.
“Dr. Adrian Cross.”
She knew the name.
Everyone in Providence did.
Private neurologist.
Rourke family physician.
And according to the framed photograph on Maxwell’s shelf, also a close family friend.
Then Maxwell opened a desk drawer.
Inside was a video.
Security footage from three weeks earlier.
He played it.
Maxwell asleep in bed.
His left leg moved.
Once.
Then again.
A deliberate bend at the knee.
Martha stared.
He paused the video.
“My doctor says it’s spinal reflex.”
“Maybe.”
“Do you believe him?”
She looked at the medication sheet.
Then the video.
Then Maxwell.
“No.”
His face became unreadable.
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Because neither do I.”
Then he slid another paper across the desk.
Blood test results.
Three consecutive months.
Martha’s stomach tightened.
May you like
The drug levels were far higher than the prescribed dose should have produced.
Someone was giving Maxwell more medication than the chart said.
