Ch.7: The Night Shift

I put Daisy back in the crib, my hands trembling so hard I almost fumbled the safety latch. She settled instantly, the sedatives—or whatever "medication" Thorne had her on—pulling her back under the surface of consciousness.

I needed to know what they were giving her. I needed the charts.

I slipped out of the nursery, the heavy door clicking shut behind me. The hallway was a tunnel of shadow. The house, so sterile by day, felt suffocating by night. The glass walls reflected nothing but darkness, turning the corridor into a mirror maze.

I knew Thorne's study was down the hall, to the left. But the medical records wouldn't be there. They would be in the "West Wing"—the forbidden zone.

I moved toward the heavy oak door Thorne had pointed at with his gold pen. The silence was absolute. My socks on the polished floor made no sound.

I reached the door. It didn't have a handle. It had a keypad and a biometric scanner.

*Damn it.*

I was about to turn back when a shadow detached itself from the wall.

"You're going the wrong way, Mara."

I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs.

A man was leaning against the window frame, watching me. He was tall, dressed in a simple white t-shirt and jeans that looked out of place in this museum of a house. His hair was dark, messy, and he had the kind of face that looked like it had been broken and put back together wrong—rugged, scarred, and dangerous.

Leo. The chauffeur. I had seen him polishing the Rolls Royce in the driveway when I arrived.

"I got lost," I lied, my voice tight. "I was looking for the kitchen. Daisy needs... warm water."

He pushed himself off the wall and walked toward me. He didn't move like a servant. He moved like a brawler.

"The kitchen is downstairs, East Wing," he said, stopping a few feet away. "This door leads to the labs. And if Thorne catches you sniffing around here, you won't just get fired."

He repeated Thorne's threat verbatim.

"I'm not sniffing," I snapped, stepping back. "I'm doing my job."

He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "That's what the last nanny said. She lasted three days."

"What happened to her?"

"She asked too many questions. Then she disappeared."

He looked at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. There was no hostility in them, just a weary sort of pity.

"You look like a nice girl, Mara," he said, his voice dropping. "Take my advice. Pack your bag. Walk out the front gate. Don't look back."

"I need this job," I said, grounding myself. "I'm not afraid of hard work."

"I'm not talking about work," he said. He took a step closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "This house is sick. The ground is sick. The money is sick. If you stay here, the sickness gets inside you. It changes you."

He glanced at the West Wing door, then back at me.

"Get out while you're still human."

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the stairwell without another word.

I stood there, the cold from the glass seeping into my bones.

He wasn't talking about a flu. He was talking about the people living here.