Chapter 2 - The Hidden Compartment
I bolted away from the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs, and quickly smoothed the blanket over Raymond’s chest. I grabbed Theodore’s diaper bag from the floor, pretending to search for a pacifier just as the brass doorknob turned.
The door crept open, slicing a wedge of yellow light across the dark carpet. Elena Winslow stepped into the room.
She wore a silk robe the color of bruised plums, her silver-streaked hair tied back in a loose, elegant knot. She didn’t look like a woman mourning a dying brother; she looked like an auditor reviewing a ledger. Her gaze swept past me, landing entirely on the monitor beside the bed.
“You’re awake late, Nora,” she said, her voice smooth and devoid of warmth.
“Theodore had a fever earlier,” I replied, forcing my voice to remain steady. “He finally fell asleep an hour ago. I was just checking Raymond’s vitals.”
Elena walked slowly toward the bed, her heels making no sound on the thick Persian rug. She reached out and touched the back of her hand to Raymond’s cheek, a gesture that should have looked tender, but felt entirely clinical.
“He looks peaceful,” she murmured, though her eyes were sharp, scanning the IV drip and the white box of medical supplies left carelessly on the side table by Dr. Wallace.
My blood ran cold. Wallace had left the empty vial in the open wastebasket beneath the sink. If she looked down—
“Dr. Wallace said the end is very near,” Elena continued, turning her gaze to me. “He mentioned the progression has accelerated. It’s a mercy, really. For all of us. The house has been under such a strain.”
“Yes, ma'am,” I said, keeping my hands buried deep in my pockets so she wouldn't see them shaking.
“You’ve been a help, Nora. Despite the child.” She gave a thin, humorless smile. “Christopher tells me you’re quiet. I appreciate quiet. But remember your place here. The Winslow family affairs are vast, complicated, and entirely closed to outsiders. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I whispered.
She lingered for another agonizing minute, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked at Raymond’s unblinking face, before turning toward the door. “Go get some sleep, Nora. We have a long week ahead of us.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
I waited three full minutes, listening to the soft scrape of her slippers fading down the hall, before exhaling a breath I felt like I’d been holding since midnight. I looked back at Raymond. His eyes were wide, darting toward the wardrobe again with frantic urgency.
I crept across the room and knelt down in front of the massive mahogany wardrobe. I ran my hands along the baseboard, pressing every seam. On the third try, my thumb caught a subtle depression in the wood. A hidden magnetic latch clicked open, and the bottom panel swung inward.
Inside was a small, fireproof metal safe and a stack of leather-bound journals.
My hands trembled as I pulled out the top journal. I flipped it open to the first page. The handwriting was sharp, jagged, and unmistakably Raymond’s. But it wasn't a business ledger or a diary of family memories.
It was a list of names, dates, and financial transfers—dating back ten years. And right at the top of the most recent page, underlined twice, was a name I recognized instantly:
May you like
Elena Winslow.
And beneath it, a sentence that turned my blood to ice: She didn’t poison Arthur. She’s coming for me next.
