Chapter 5 - THE HOUSEKEEPER'S CONFESSIONBefore Thorne or Finch could bolt for the heavy doors, the security override engaged, locking the keypad from the outside. The reinforced glass panels showed a platoon of private security guards—not corporate mercenaries, but Adrian’s personal federal-grade detail—standing guard in the hallway.
“Bring her in,” Adrian ordered into his lapel mic.
Moments later, the heavy doors swung open. Head housekeeper Martha was shoved into the room by two burly guards. Her immaculate, starched uniform was rumpled, her face twisted in absolute panic. She took one look at the specimen bag on the table and collapsed onto her knees, sobbing hysterically.
“I didn't want to do it! They forced me!” Martha wailed, clawing at the sterile floor tiles. “Dr. Vance said if I didn't keep Milo isolated in the West Wing, if I let any outside specialist examine his ears, they would cut off my pension and expose my brother’s medical debts! I was just following orders!”
I stepped out of the shadows, looking down at the woman who had forced me to scrub marble floors with my bare hands while a little boy suffered in silence.
“You didn't just follow orders, Martha,” I said quietly, my voice cutting through her cries. “You watched him smash his head against the wood paneling every single day. You watched him bleed behind his ears, and you lied to his father's face to protect your paycheck.”
“Shut up, you filthy little maid!” Martha screeched, lunging toward me with clawed fingers. “This is all your fault! If you had just minded your own business and cleaned the stains like you were told, none of this would have happened!”
Adrian’s boot came down hard on the floor, the sharp echo stopping Martha dead in her tracks. He towered over her, his shadow enveloping her entire body.
“You had access to my son every single day,” Adrian said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deathly register. “You fed him, you tucked him in, you watched him cry in pain—and you traded his voice for corporate hush money. Get her out of my sight. Hand her and Finch over to the federal marshals waiting in the sub-level garage.”
As the guards dragged a screaming Martha and a pale, trembling Finch out of the suite, Thorne tried to edge toward the door.
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“You can’t arrest me, Adrian. I’m corporate counsel. I know where every body is buried,” Thorne blustered.
“Good,” Adrian replied, not even looking at him. “You can dig your own grave first.”
