Chapter 3 - A House Full of Locked Doors
Vincent did not open the door.
Instead, he motioned for Eleanor and me to remain silent.
Dr. Keller knocked again.
“Vincent?”
“We’re changing his linens,” Vincent called.
There was a pause.
“At seven in the morning?”
“Clara spilled water.”
I nearly looked offended despite the circumstances.
Another pause.
“Fine,” Keller said. “Five minutes.”
His footsteps retreated.
Vincent lowered the weapon.
“We need to separate him from his medical kit.”
“How?” I asked.
“You said you worked in health care.”
“That doesn’t make me a magician.”
“Can you convince him Alexander vomited?”
“Yes.”
“Would that change what medication he gives?”
“Possibly.”
“Then we make him leave the kit.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“This is madness.”
“No,” Vincent replied. “Madness was trusting everyone in this house.”
He unlocked the door and positioned himself in the hall while I changed Alexander’s pillowcase, partly to support the lie and partly because my hands needed something useful to do.
Five minutes later Dr. Keller returned.
He was sixty-three, silver-haired, respected and normally unshakable.
That morning he looked exhausted.
“What happened?”
“He vomited,” I said.
Keller approached the bed.
“When?”
“Two minutes ago.”
“How much?”
“Mostly water.”
He frowned.
“Any blood?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He opened his black medical case.
I watched every movement.
Inside were sealed syringes, gloves, thermometers, small medication boxes.
And another amber bottle.
My heart kicked.
Same pharmacy.
Same label.
Keller reached for it.
I spoke quickly.
“Doctor, which medication is that?”
He looked surprised.
“The antibiotic I prescribed.”
“Can I see it?”
His expression hardened.
“Why?”
“I want to record the dose.”
“I already have.”
“That isn’t what she asked,” Vincent said from the doorway.
Keller’s gaze moved to him.
Something passed between them.
Dislike.
Old dislike.
Keller handed me the bottle.
The pills were different.
Correct imprint.
Correct shape.
I looked at Vincent.
He saw it.
Keller noticed.
“What’s going on?”
I handed him the switched medication.
“Do you recognize these?”
His face drained of color.
He examined the tablet.
“Where did this come from?”
“Alexander’s bedside.”
“That isn’t what I prescribed.”
Vincent folded his arms.
“You told me you personally delivered his medication.”
“I did.”
“Clara says a pharmacy courier delivered it.”
Keller frowned.
“No courier was supposed to come here.”
I described the young man.
Blue rain jacket.
Baseball cap.
Pharmacy identification badge.
Keller’s eyes narrowed.
“Did you sign?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“A white paper bag.”
“Where’s the receipt?”
My stomach turned.
I had placed it on the foyer table.
“I’ll get it.”
Vincent stopped me.
“Nobody leaves alone.”
We left Eleanor with Alexander and walked together.
The estate felt different now.
Hallways I had crossed a thousand times suddenly seemed full of hiding places.
Every closed door became suspicious.
Every camera felt important.
We reached the foyer.
The receipt was gone.
Vincent stared at the empty table.
“You’re sure?”
“I put it right here.”
He walked toward the security panel.
Three camera feeds were black.
“Storm?” Keller asked.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Those cameras have independent backup power.”
The disabled feeds covered the front entrance, pharmacy delivery route and east service hall.
Someone had erased exactly what mattered.
Vincent’s radio crackled.
“Mr. Hale?”
One of the guards.
“Go.”
“We found something near the east gate.”
“What?”
“A motorcycle.”
My breath stopped.
“Blue?”
The guard hesitated.
“Yes.”
We reached the gatehouse ten minutes later.
The rain had softened to a drizzle.
A blue delivery motorcycle lay behind a hedge.
No rider.
Inside the rear compartment were pharmacy bags.
Empty.
Vincent searched beneath the seat and found an identification card.
The photograph showed the man I had seen.
But the pharmacy name had been printed slightly crooked.
Fake.
Keller cursed.
“Someone impersonated a courier.”
“Why?” I asked.
“To deliver the switched pills,” Vincent said.
“Then why leave the motorcycle?”
“Maybe he couldn’t leave the estate.”
The thought chilled me.
Keller looked toward the mansion.
“You think he’s still inside?”
“I think several people involved may still be inside.”
We returned through the service entrance.
Halfway down the corridor, I noticed muddy water near a closet.
“Wait.”
Vincent stopped.
There were footprints.
Fresh.
Leading toward the old wine cellar.
We followed them downstairs.
The Romano cellar was enormous, more like an underground stone hall than storage.
One door stood slightly open.
Vincent raised his weapon.
He pushed it wider.
Nobody.
But on the floor lay a blue rain jacket.
Beside it were a cap, fake pharmacy badge and wet shoes.
The courier had changed clothes.
Which meant he could now look like anyone else on the staff.
Keller found something beneath the jacket.
A folded sheet of paper.
Vincent took it with a handkerchief.
Three typed lines:
FIRST DOSE: 9:30 PM.
SECOND: 1:30 AM.
THIRD: 5:30 AM.
At the bottom:
SIGNING AT NOON.
I stared.
“What signing?”
Nobody answered.
Then Keller looked at Vincent.
“You know.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
I stepped closer.
“Know what?”
“Alexander was scheduled to sign control documents today,” Keller said.
“What documents?”
“Temporary transfer of authority.”
“To whom?”
Neither man answered immediately.
That frightened me.
“Who?” I repeated.
Keller finally spoke.
“His uncle.”
Sebastian Romano.
At that exact moment, a voice sounded behind us.
“Is there a reason everyone is discussing me in a cellar?”
We turned.
Sebastian Romano stood at the bottom of the stairs.
Perfectly dressed.
Perfectly calm.
May you like
And smiling.
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