Chapter 8 - The Housekeeper’s Secret
“Why are you calling me, Sarah?” I asked, gripping the edge of the kitchen table so hard my knuckles turned white. “Are you going to tell Christopher?”
“If I wanted to tell Christopher, you’d already have men at your door,” Sarah replied, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I’ve worked in that house for twenty-two years, Nora. I changed Christopher when he was a baby, and I wiped Arthur’s tears after his father died. I thought Arthur’s death was an accident for a long time. But when Elena started taking over the family accounts and moving Dr. Wallace into the west wing... I started putting pieces together that didn't fit.”
I let out a slow, cautious breath. “You knew about the poisoning?”
“I knew something unnatural was happening to Raymond,” Sarah admitted, a note of deep fatigue in her tone. “Wallace brings those white boxes in through the service elevator every Tuesday. I’m the one who empties the medical waste bins, Nora. I saw the empty vials. But I have a daughter in college, and the Winslows pay my tuition checks. I kept my mouth shut because I was a coward.”
“You’re calling me now,” I pointed out. “That’s not the action of a coward.”
“It’s the action of someone who realizes that once Raymond is dead, Elena won't leave any loose ends,” Sarah said grimly. “She’s already talking about restructuring the entire domestic staff. People who know too much about the household habits tend to... relocate. Permanently.”
I looked down at the open manila envelope on the table—the autopsy report, the Swiss bank records, the handwritten confession. “I have the proof, Sarah. The original autopsy report, the bank transfers, everything Raymond kept in his hidden stash. It’s all here.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. The only sound was the faint static of the cell connection and Theodore cooing softly in the background.
“That’s dynamite, Nora,” Sarah whispered. “If Christopher or Elena finds out you have that, they won't just fire you. They’ll bury you where nobody will ever find you.”
“I’m not going to let them bury anyone else,” I said, a fierce determination rising in my chest. “Raymond is still alive. Barely. But if Wallace administers another dose today, he won't make it through the night. We have to act now.”
“What can we do?” Sarah asked. “We’re just a nanny and a housekeeper.”
“We’re the only ones inside their circle who know the truth,” I replied. “Tell me where Dr. Wallace gets those vials. Is there a pharmacy, a clinic, a supplier?”
Another pause. I could hear the hesitation in Sarah’s breathing, the battle between twenty-two years of ingrained servitude and the sudden, terrifying realization that her employers were cold-blooded murderers.
“There’s a private lab downtown,” Sarah said finally. “A medical supply warehouse on Lake Street that isn't listed on any public registry. Wallace goes there every Monday morning to pick up the restricted shipments personally, paying in cash under a corporate pseudonym.”
I looked at the clock on the microwave. It was 3:15 p.m.
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“What time does the warehouse close?”
“Five o'clock,” Sarah said. “Nora, what are you planning?”
