Chapter 1 - The First Thread
The sound of the towels hitting the hardwood floor echoed like a gunshot in the high-ceilinged hallway. Mrs. Harper’s breath hitched, her knuckles turning bone-white as she clutched the edge of a mahogany side table.
"Mrs. Harper," Vincent said again, his voice dropping an octave into that terrifying, quiet register that made hardened syndicate captains sweat. "Why did you drop the towels?"
"Nothing, Mr. Moretti," she stammered, her eyes darting frantically toward the floor before snapping back to the wall. "My hands... my arthritis has been acting up. The damp weather..."
"You weren't looking at your hands, Mrs. Harper," I said, standing up slowly from my crouch beside the vent. "You were looking at the ventilation grate."
Vincent’s gaze shifted from the trembling housekeeper back to me, then back to her. The air in the corridor grew thick, suffocating. He didn't yell; he didn't draw the signature Beretta tucked beneath his tailored wool coat. Instead, he took two measured steps toward her. In the mafia underworld, panic was a confession long before a jury ever heard a verdict.
"Get out of the hallway, Claire," Vincent ordered without breaking eye contact with the housekeeper. "Take the boys to the west wing playroom. Now."
"Vincent, if she's connected to whatever is poisoning them, backing her into a corner in a panic could—"
"I said, now," he cut me off, though his voice lacked malice toward me. It was pure, concentrated predator focus.
I didn't argue. I slipped past them, pushing open the double doors to the boys' bedroom. Lucas and Leo were sitting up in their matching twin beds, pale as winter marble, their once-chubby cheeks hollowed out by eighteen months of unexplained decay. They looked like ghosts of children, too weak to hold their game controllers, staring blankly at a cartoon on the flatscreen.
"Hey, guys," I said, forcing the brightest smile I could muster. "How about we go build a fortress out of pillows in the playroom? The big one with the skylight."
"I'm too tired, Claire," Leo whispered, his voice thin as dry paper.
"Me too," Lucas echoed, closing his eyes.
May you like
"I know you are," I murmured, my heart twisting. But staying in this room, breathing that faint, artificial sweetness, was killing them inch by inch. I scooped Leo up into my arms—he weighed next to nothing, terrifyingly light for a seven-year-old—and guided Lucas by the hand.
Behind us, down the hall, a muffled shriek echoed, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the wall.
