CHAPTER 1 — THE NURSE WHO KNEW EWAN
CHAPTER 1 — THE NURSE WHO KNEW EWAN
At one in the morning, I woke to the sound of breaking glass.
Not a single glass.
Not a window.
It was the unmistakable crash of something heavy striking the conservatory floor.
I was out of bed before I was fully awake.
For most men, the sound might have meant an accident.
In my house, it meant someone had crossed a line.
I pulled on my shirt and walked into the hallway.
The estate was silent.
Too silent.
The guards stationed near the east entrance were where they were supposed to be. The lights beneath the staircase were dim. Snow pressed against the tall windows, turning the entire house into a pale reflection of itself.
Then I heard a woman's voice.
"Stop struggling."
Celeste.
My fiancée.
I moved faster.
The conservatory doors were half open.
I pushed one of them aside.
And stopped.
Glass covered the floor.
A lamp had fallen from a side table.
One of the orchids lay crushed beneath a chair.
And in the middle of the room was Delia.
My mother's night nurse.
She was on the floor with one hand pressed against her temple.
Blood ran between her fingers.
Celeste stood above her.
She was still wearing the ivory evening gown she'd worn at dinner.
Her hair was perfect.
Her diamond earrings were still in place.
And in her hand was a silk scarf.
The scarf was wrapped around Delia's wrist.
Celeste looked at me.
For one second, neither of us spoke.
Then she smiled.
"Go back to bed."
I stared at the woman I was supposed to marry in nineteen days.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
Delia tried to move.
Celeste tightened her grip on the scarf.
"Stay down."
My voice became colder.
"Let her go."
Celeste looked almost offended.
"She was stealing from your mother."
I looked at Delia.
"Is that true?"
Delia didn't answer.
Her eyes remained fixed on me.
Not pleading.
Not frightened.
Warning me.
That was the first thing that didn't make sense.
Most people who found themselves on the floor in my house with blood on their face would be begging.
Delia wasn't.
She looked like someone who had been waiting for me to arrive.
I stepped forward.
"Celeste."
She released the scarf.
Delia immediately pulled her wrist toward herself.
"Tell me what happened."
Celeste folded her arms.
"I caught her in your mother's room."
"At one in the morning?"
"Yes."
"Doing what?"
"Going through her things."
"What things?"
Celeste hesitated.
"Documents."
I looked at Delia again.
She finally spoke.
"I wasn't stealing anything."
Her voice was weak.
But steady.
Celeste laughed.
"Of course."
I looked at her.
"Why was she bleeding?"
"She fell."
I glanced at the broken glass.
"She fell into the window?"
Celeste said nothing.
I knew that silence.
It was the silence of someone trying to decide which lie would survive the longest.
I crouched beside Delia.
"Can you stand?"
She nodded.
"Don't."
I looked at Celeste.
"Don't tell her what to do."
Celeste's expression hardened.
"You are taking her side?"
"No."
I stood.
"I'm asking what happened."
She stared at me.
"You trust a stranger over me?"
That question should have mattered.
It didn't.
Because for the first time in two years, I realized something.
I didn't know Delia.
Not really.
I knew she worked for my mother.
I knew she came on at seven every evening and left after breakfast.
I knew she kept my mother's medications organized.
I knew my mother's breathing had been more stable since Delia arrived.
But I didn't know her full name.
I didn't know where she lived.
I didn't know whether she had family.
I didn't know why she'd stayed with my mother when every other nurse had quit.
I knew nothing.
And yet Celeste expected me to trust her simply because she was wearing my engagement ring.
I turned toward Delia.
"What's your name?"
She looked surprised.
"Delia."
"Your full name."
"Delia Marie Marlowe."
I repeated it silently.
Marlowe.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, the name struck something.
I couldn't place it.
Before I could ask, Celeste spoke.
"You don't need to interrogate her."
I looked at her.
"Go upstairs."
"What?"
"Go upstairs."
Her mouth opened.
She had never heard those words from me before.
She recovered quickly.
"You're angry."
"Yes."
"At me?"
"Right now, I'm angry at everyone."
She stared at me.
Then she turned and walked toward the door.
At the threshold, she stopped.
Without looking back, she said:
"You have no idea what that woman is hiding."
Then she left.
The door closed.
Delia watched it.
I watched her.
"Why did she say that?"
Delia lowered her eyes.
"Because she's afraid."
"Of you?"
"No."
She swallowed.
"Of what I know."
I felt something shift inside me.
"What do you know?"
Delia didn't answer.
Instead, she looked toward my mother's bedroom.
"Your mother needs to be turned."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"Her left shoulder."
She pushed herself carefully to her knees.
"She can't stay in one position too long."
There was blood on her fingers.
Her temple was split.
And she was worried about my mother.
I helped her stand.
"Sit down."
"I need to check her."
"You've been hit."
"My mother needs me."
Something in her voice stopped me.
I nodded.
"Then I'll come with you."
My mother's bedroom was dark except for the small lamp beside her bed.
The breathing machine made a quiet rhythmic sound.
Delia moved toward her.
She checked the monitor.
Then the oxygen.
Then the position of my mother's shoulder.
Her hands were gentle.
Precise.
Professional.
My mother had been unconscious for four years.
Four years of machines.
Four years of doctors telling me not to expect too much.
Four years of nurses coming and going.
Delia had been the only constant.
She adjusted the pillow.
"Better."
I watched her.
"How did you know?"
"Because she always favors her left side."
I looked at my mother.
"She can't tell you that."
"No."
Delia smiled faintly.
"She doesn't have to."
That sentence stayed with me.
Then Delia suddenly froze.
Her eyes moved toward the hallway.
"What?"
She whispered:
"Did Celeste tell you anything about Ewan?"
My heart stopped.
The room seemed to become smaller.
I stepped toward her.
"What did you say?"
She looked at me.
"Ewan."
I hadn't heard my brother's name spoken in this house in years.
Not like that.
Not by a stranger.
"Ewan is dead."
Delia's eyes filled with something that wasn't fear.
It was grief.
"No."
I felt the temperature drop.
"My brother died six years ago."
She shook her head.
"No."
"Then what are you saying?"
She looked at my mother.
Then at me.
"Your brother came to me before the fire."
My pulse began pounding.
"Where?"
"At Mercy Clinic."
"Why?"
"He was looking for your mother."
I stared.
"Why would he?"
"Because he believed someone was trying to kill her."
My mother's fingers suddenly moved.
Just once.
Delia noticed.
So did I.
I stepped toward the bed.
"Mom?"
Her eyes remained closed.
But her hand moved again.
Toward the drawer beside her bed.
I opened it.
Inside was an old photograph.
Ewan.
Six years younger.
Standing beside a woman.
Delia.
I looked from the photograph to her.
"You knew my brother."
She nodded.
"Yes."
"How?"
She looked down.
"Because he asked me to protect your mother."
"From who?"
She didn't answer.
"Delia."
Her voice became almost inaudible.
"From your father."
I couldn't breathe.
"My father died twelve years ago."
She looked directly into my eyes.
"That's what they wanted you to believe."
The rest of the house seemed to disappear.
There was only the sound of the machine.
The snow against the windows.
And Delia's voice.
"Ewan discovered that your father was still alive."
I stepped backward.
"No."
"He found documents."
"No."
"He tried to expose him."
"Stop."
"He knew about the money moving through Pier 44."
I raised a hand.
"Stop."
She did.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked:
"Why didn't Ewan tell me?"
Delia looked at me with heartbreaking sadness.
"Because he believed you were being watched."
"By my father?"
"By everyone."
I looked toward the door.
"Celeste?"
Delia didn't answer.
That was enough.
I felt the first real crack in the life I'd built.
The woman I was about to marry.
My father who was supposed to be dead.
My brother who was supposed to be buried.
And a nurse who had been silently protecting my mother for two years.
None of it made sense.
Until Delia reached into the pocket of her uniform.
She pulled out a small metal key.
She placed it in my palm.
A number was engraved across it.
17.
"What is this?"
"Ewan gave it to me."
"When?"
"The night before Pier 44."
I stared at the key.
"What does it open?"
She looked toward the conservatory.
"The room your family erased from the house plans."
My fingers tightened around the metal.
"There is no room beneath the conservatory."
"There is."
"Where?"
"Under the floor."
I looked at her.
"How do I get in?"
"You already know."
I shook my head.
"No."
She gave me the faintest smile.
"Ewan told me you would say that."
"What else did he say?"
She hesitated.
Then whispered:
"He said that if the day ever came when you finally asked the right questions, I should give you the key."
"Which questions?"
Delia looked toward the sleeping woman in the bed.
Then back at me.
"The first one."
"What is the first question?"
She held my gaze.
"Why did your father want your mother silent?"
The question stayed between us.
And suddenly I understood something terrifying.
The woman I was going to marry had not been the first person to lie to me.
She had only been the latest.
I closed my hand around the key.
"Delia."
"Yes?"
"Did Ewan survive the fire?"
She looked at me for a long time.
Then she answered:
"I never saw his body."
My heart stopped.
She continued.
"And neither did your mother."
I looked at the woman lying in the bed.
Her eyes remained closed.
But one tear slipped silently down her cheek.
That was when I knew.
My family had buried a lie for six years.
And tonight, I had finally found the key that could unlock it.
I walked toward the conservatory.
Behind me, Delia whispered:
"Be careful."
I stopped.
"Why?"
"Because if the room is still there..."
She swallowed.
"...then whoever hid it knows you are looking for it."
I looked down at the key in my hand.
Number seventeen.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid of what I might find.
I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't.
I opened the conservatory door.
The broken glass had already been cleaned.
The blood had already disappeared.
But beneath the polished floor, something was waiting.
May you like
And somewhere in the house, someone was waiting for me to find it.
END OF CHAPTER 1
