My fingers touched the cord.
Liam’s hand closed around my wrist before I could pull it.
He did not grip hard enough to hurt me. He did not need to. The suddenness of it stopped me more effectively than force could have.
“Please,” he said.
The word was so quiet I almost thought I had imagined it.
Liam Mercer had insulted me, ignored me, and once thrown a glass against a wall close enough to make me flinch. He had never asked me for anything.
Not until then.
I looked from his hand to his face.
His skin had gone pale beneath the bruising, and a muscle jumped in his cheek. He wasn’t angry. He was afraid.
That frightened me more than his temper ever had.
I lowered my hand.
“All right,” I said. “I won’t open them.”
His fingers remained around my wrist for another second before he released me.
I returned to the chair beside his bed, but I didn’t pick up my book. The room had fallen into a strange silence, broken only by the soft hum of the air purifier and the faint ticking of the clock above the fireplace.
Outside, wind moved through the trees.
“You like sunlight,” I said.
His gaze shifted toward the narrow line of brightness beneath the curtains.
“I like knowing it’s there.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No.”
I waited.
Liam closed his eyes.
“You ask too many questions.”
“That’s what people say when they don’t want to answer.”
His mouth tightened, but I saw the corner of it move. Not quite a smile. More like the memory of one.
Then pain crossed his face.
I set the book down. “Where is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Liam.”
He looked at me.
I had learned that expression over the past four days. It meant he was deciding whether honesty would cost more than silence.
“Lower abdomen,” he said finally.
I checked his pulse and temperature, then examined the bandages. The bleeding had increased slightly, but the wound itself didn’t look worse. His breathing was shallow, though, and he kept pressing his left hand against the mattress as if anchoring himself there.
“Your pain medication is due.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You asked for it twenty minutes ago.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You’re allowed to do that. You’re not allowed to pretend pain is a moral victory.”
His eyes sharpened.
“You’re very comfortable giving orders.”
“I’m very comfortable keeping difficult patients alive.”
“Is that what I am?”
“A difficult patient?”
“A patient.”
The question seemed to surprise him as much as it did me.
I softened my voice. “You’re injured. You need care. That makes you a patient, whether you like the word or not.”
“And if I don’t want to need anyone?”
“Then you’re in the wrong body.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I gave him the medication, and this time he swallowed it without argument. While I adjusted his pillows, I noticed a small photograph tucked beneath the edge of the bedside lamp.
It showed two boys standing in front of a lake.
The younger one had dark hair and a crooked grin. The older boy, taller and more serious, rested one hand on his shoulder. They looked nothing alike, but the affection between them was unmistakable.
I recognized the older boy immediately.
Liam.
The younger one couldn’t have been more than ten.
“Your brother?” I asked.
His body went still.
I regretted the question at once, but the photograph had already been seen.
“His name was Daniel.”
Was.
I glanced back at the picture. “I’m sorry.”
Liam turned his face toward the window.
“You didn’t know him.”
“I don’t have to know someone to be sorry they’re gone.”
The room stayed quiet.
Then he said, “He was twenty-six.”
I waited.
“Older than he looked in the photograph.”
“I guessed that.”
“He had a daughter.”
Something in his voice changed when he said it. The guarded hardness gave way to something tired and tender.
“Ava,” he continued. “She’s eight.”
“Does she live here?”
“No.”
“Where is she?”
“With my mother.”
The answer came too quickly, as though he had said it many times to himself.
I looked at the closed curtains. “Do you see her?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why only sometimes?”
He turned back toward me.
“Because my life is not a safe place for children.”
His words were calm, but I heard the shame beneath them.
Before I could respond, the door opened.
Leo entered carrying a tray. He placed a bowl of soup and a glass of water on the table, then glanced at Liam’s face.
“Doctor Patel called,” he said. “He wants the dressing checked again tonight.”
“I heard him,” Liam replied.
Leo’s gaze moved to me. “You should eat.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve had coffee and half a piece of toast since this morning.”
“I’m fine,” I repeated.
“People say that right before they fall over.”
Liam’s eyes shifted between us. “You know her well?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then stop monitoring her meals.”
Leo gave him a flat look. “You’re one to talk.”
That was the first time I had seen anyone speak to Liam without fear. Liam seemed almost amused by it.
Almost.
Leo pulled the tray closer to me. “Eat. I’ll sit with him.”
“I can stay.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
The words were polite, but there was something beneath them. A warning, perhaps. Or an invitation to leave before the conversation became private.
I picked up the soup.
The first spoonful tasted like salt and warmth. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.
Leo watched until I took a second.
Liam noticed.
“You’re all very determined to keep her alive,” he said.
Leo’s expression did not change. “She’s the only nurse who has lasted four days.”
“I’m not leaving.”
Neither man answered.
That silence followed me out of the room.
My quarters were in the west wing, beyond a narrow staircase and a corridor lined with oil paintings. The room was small but comfortable, with a brass bed, a wardrobe, and a desk overlooking the garden. Someone had placed fresh towels on the dresser and a folded sweater at the foot of the bed.
I had not brought a sweater.
The fabric was soft, gray, and expensive enough that I hesitated before touching it.
Underneath lay an envelope.
My name was written across the front.
For a moment, I thought it contained another set of instructions. Instead, I found a check.
Ten thousand dollars.
My breath caught.
The date was the following Friday.
I stared at it until the numbers blurred.
I had expected payment in cash, exactly as promised, but holding the check made the arrangement feel more real—and more dangerous. One week of my life had become a figure large enough to save Tommy from losing his place in the trial.
I sat on the edge of the bed and called the hospital from the landline.
A woman in billing answered after several rings.
“I’m calling about Thomas Bennett,” I said. “Patient number 4187.”
“Are you family?”
“I’m his sister.”
“One moment.”
Music played through the receiver. Thin, tinny, and cheerful in a way that seemed cruel.
A nurse finally came on the line.
“Tommy’s stable,” she said. “He’s sleeping.”
“Did the trial coordinator leave any message?”
“There was an update. They need proof of payment for the first treatment cycle by Monday morning.”
“Monday?”
“I’m sorry. That’s what the coordinator entered.”
I looked at the check on my lap.
It was Friday evening.
“If I bring it Monday, will he keep his place?”
“As long as the funds clear.”
“And if they don’t?”
A pause.
“They’ll have to offer the slot to someone else.”
I closed my eyes.
The call ended a minute later, but I kept holding the receiver.
I could already picture Tommy teasing me for worrying. He had always made jokes when he was scared. When our mother died, he had told the funeral director that she would hate the flowers. When his hair began falling out, he said baldness was finally going to make him look sophisticated.
He was twenty-one years old, ninety pounds thin, and still trying to protect me from the truth.
I placed the check inside my suitcase and locked it.
Then I heard something outside my door.
Footsteps.
They stopped.
I waited, but no one knocked.
When I opened the door, the corridor was empty.
At the far end, beneath a wall sconce, stood a woman I had never seen before.
She was in her late fifties, elegantly dressed in a navy cardigan and pearl earrings. Her silver hair was pinned neatly at the nape of her neck.
She held a folded blanket in her arms.
“Miss Bennett,” she said.
“How do you know my name?”
“This house knows everything about its occupants.”
The remark might have sounded playful from someone else. From her, it sounded like a fact.
“I’m Mrs. Vale,” she continued. “I manage the household.”
“I thought Leo did that.”
“Leo manages Mr. Mercer’s security. I manage everything else.”
Her eyes moved briefly to my locked suitcase.
“Your payment arrived?”
I stiffened. “Yes.”
“Good. Then you’ll understand why everyone here is anxious for you to remain.”
“That’s a strange thing to say.”
“Strange, perhaps. Untrue, no.”
She extended the blanket.
“For Mr. Mercer. He gets cold when his medication takes effect.”
I accepted it.
“Why did you bring it to me?”
“Because he won’t accept things directly from most people.”
“Does he accept them from you?”
“Sometimes.”
“And from Leo?”
“Only when he believes Leo is not being kind.”
I wasn’t sure what to do with that answer.
Mrs. Vale turned to leave.
“Wait.”
She looked back.
“Why are the blinds sealed?”
The change in her face was almost imperceptible, but I saw it.
“Mr. Mercer has his reasons.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Then perhaps you should listen.”
She walked away before I could ask anything else.
That night, I barely slept.
At two in the morning, I woke to the sound of a door closing somewhere downstairs. I reached for the lamp and sat up, listening.
The mansion settled around me with low creaks and distant groans. Wind pressed against the windows. A branch scraped the glass.
Then I heard voices.
I slipped from bed and opened my door.
The sound came from the library across the hall. The door was ajar, and light spilled through the gap.
Leo was speaking.
“You can’t keep her here without telling her.”
“She agreed to the conditions.”
“She agreed to nursing a private patient. Not to being placed in the middle of this.”
A second voice answered.
Liam.
“I’m not placing her anywhere.”
“You’re already doing it.”
“I need someone who will follow medical orders.”
“You need someone who won’t ask about Daniel.”
Silence.
My heart began to pound.
I should have returned to my room. Instead, I moved closer.
Liam spoke again, his voice lower. “Don’t bring his name into this.”
“Then stop pretending this is only about your injuries.”
“What do you want from me?”
“The truth.”
“The truth won’t bring him back.”
“No. But it might stop you from punishing yourself for something you didn’t do.”
My breath caught.
A floorboard creaked beneath me.
The library went silent.
I stepped away from the door just as it opened.
Leo stood there.
He did not look surprised to see me.
“How much did you hear?” he asked.
“Enough to know someone is being lied to.”
His eyes flicked toward the room behind him, then back to me.
“Go to bed, Miss Bennett.”
“Who is Daniel?”
Leo’s expression hardened—not with anger, but with exhaustion.
“Ask Liam.”
“I did. He told me his brother was dead.”
“That’s all he’s ready to tell you.”
“And what are you ready to tell me?”
“Nothing.”
He closed the library door.
I returned to my room, but sleep was impossible.
The following morning, Liam refused breakfast.
He also refused to look at me.
I changed his dressing in silence. The wound was less inflamed, and his temperature had dropped, but he seemed more withdrawn than before.
When I finished, I disposed of the supplies and washed my hands.
“Who is Daniel?”
The muscles in his back tightened.
“I told you.”
“You told me he was your brother.”
“And that he was dead.”
“Leo thinks you’re hiding something.”
“Leo thinks many things.”
“You were both talking about him last night.”
Liam’s gaze moved toward the curtains.
“You were listening outside the library.”
“I heard voices.”
“You should learn the difference between hearing and eavesdropping.”
“I’m sure you’ll explain it to me after you explain why your security chief believes you’re punishing yourself.”
He looked at me then.
His eyes were not cold. They were wounded.
“Do you always make a habit of asking strangers about the worst thing that ever happened to them?”
“Only when strangers hire me under false pretenses.”
“I didn’t lie to you.”
“You told me to ignore your injuries.”
“I told you not to ask questions about them.”
“Those aren’t the same thing.”
“No,” he said. “They aren’t.”
The words settled between us.
I expected him to shut down again, but instead he leaned back against the pillows.
“Daniel died six months ago.”
I waited.
“He was driving home from work. A truck ran a red light.”
I lowered myself into the chair.
“Was anyone else hurt?”
“No.”
“Then why do the curtains matter?”
His face went blank.
I knew immediately that I had reached the edge of what he could say.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“So was everyone.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Some questions don’t deserve answers.”
“Maybe not. But grief isn’t an infection. You can’t keep it sealed away and expect it not to spread.”
He turned his head sharply.
“Don’t use words you don’t understand.”
“My mother died when I was twelve. My father died three years later. I understand more than you think.”
Something shifted in him.
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t ask.”
For the first time, he looked ashamed.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology was so unexpected that I didn’t know how to receive it.
I looked down at my hands. “My brother was all I had left. That’s why I took this job.”
“Tommy.”
I looked up.
“You said his name yesterday.”
“You remembered.”
“I remember everything people tell me.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then remember this. I need the money by Monday. If I lose this job, my brother loses his place in a trial.”
Liam studied me.
“How much?”
“I’m not asking you for anything.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
The number hung in the room.
He glanced toward the locked cabinet beside his bed.
“Leo can arrange an advance.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then I owe you.”
“You already work for me.”
“That’s not the same.”
“It is to me.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
His eyes narrowed.
I stood and gathered the used bandages.
“I’m not here to become another person you control.”
“I don’t control you.”
“You control the house, the staff, the guards, and whether anyone sees daylight in this room.”
His expression darkened.
“Leave the blinds alone.”
“Tell me why.”
He looked away.
The conversation was over.
That afternoon, the doctor arrived.
Dr. Patel was a compact man with a warm voice and tired eyes. He examined Liam’s wounds, reviewed the medication chart, and nodded approvingly.
“You’re healing,” he said.
“Don’t sound disappointed.”
“I’m disappointed you haven’t learned to appreciate good news.”
Dr. Patel turned to me. “You’re doing excellent work.”
“Thank you.”
“Keep him moving as much as possible. Gentle exercises. No weight on the injured leg.”
Liam muttered, “She already enjoys ordering me around.”
“Then you’re receiving excellent care.”
After the doctor left, I helped Liam sit at the edge of the bed. His face tightened as he shifted, but he didn’t complain.
“Ready?” I asked.
“No.”
“Good. We’ll start.”
I placed a towel beneath his foot and guided him through a series of careful movements. His hands gripped the mattress. Sweat gathered at his temples.
“Tell me if it’s too much.”
“It’s too much.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“You’re hallucinating.”
“I’m injured, not blind.”
The small exchange loosened something in the room.
When we finished, I brought him water. He drank it without protest.
“You’re better at this than the others,” he said.
“At nursing?”
“At not treating me like I’m fragile.”
“You’re not fragile.”
“No?”
“You’re injured, stubborn, and frightened. That’s different.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“People mistake fear for anger,” he said.
“People mistake anger for strength.”
“Do you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you think I’m afraid?”
“I think you’re afraid of what happens if you stop being angry.”
His expression changed.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
A door slammed somewhere downstairs.
Liam’s breathing stopped.
The glass in his hand slipped and shattered against the floor.
I reached for him, but he pulled away.
“Don’t.”
“It’s only a noise.”
“I know what it is.”
He stared at the doorway.
Footsteps approached, then passed.
Only when they faded did he breathe again.
I knelt to gather the broken pieces.
“Was that the truck?” I asked softly.
His face had lost all color.
“No.”
“Then what was it?”
He didn’t answer.
I found a shard of glass beneath the bed and placed it on the tray.
When I stood, Liam was staring at the curtains.
A thin line of sunlight had appeared beneath them.
His hand began to tremble.
I crossed the room and drew the curtains fully shut.
He looked at me, startled.
“Why did you do that?”
“Because you were scared.”
“I’m not scared of sunlight.”
“Then what are you scared of?”
He didn’t answer.
I returned to the bed and noticed a fresh mark on the inside of his wrist: a narrow red line, like a faded bracelet.
There was another identical mark on his left wrist.
Not a bruise. A scar.
“Liam.”
He pulled his sleeve down.
“What?”
“Those marks.”
His face closed.
“Old injuries.”
“From what?”
“An accident.”
“What kind?”
He looked at me.
“The kind people survive and still wish they hadn’t.”
I said nothing.
For the rest of the evening, he remained quiet.
At nine, Mrs. Vale brought dinner. She placed a plate in front of Liam and another in front of me.
“Eat,” she said.
Liam stared at the food.
“Mrs. Vale,” I said, “how long have you worked here?”
“Twenty-two years.”
“Did you know Daniel?”
Her hands paused on the back of a chair.
“Yes.”
“What happened to him?”
She looked at Liam.
He gave the slightest shake of his head.
Mrs. Vale understood.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That is not my story to tell.”
She left.
Liam pushed the plate away.
I stopped him. “You need to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Neither am I, but we’re both doing it.”
He glanced at me. “You’re very persistent.”
“I’ve been told.”
“Does it work on your brother?”
“Not often.”
“What does he have?”
The question was simple, but it struck deep.
“Leukemia.”
Liam’s expression changed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there a chance the trial will help?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m trying not to hope too much.”
“Why?”
“Because hope makes disappointment sharper.”
He looked down at his untouched plate.
“Does that make it easier?”
“No.”
“What does?”
I thought of Tommy’s crooked grin, the way he pretended hospital pudding was gourmet, the way he called every nurse by a nickname.
“Showing up,” I said. “Even when you’re scared. Even when you can’t fix anything.”
Liam’s fingers tightened around his fork.
“Daniel used to say that.”
“About showing up?”
“He said I could solve every problem except the ones that mattered.”
“What did you say?”
“That he talked too much.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
A faint smile appeared.
It disappeared quickly, but I had seen it.
Liam ate three bites.
Then five.
By midnight, his fever had returned.
Not high, but enough to concern me. I called Dr. Patel, administered the prescribed medication, and stayed beside the bed while Liam drifted in and out of sleep.
Around three, he woke abruptly.
“Where is Ava?” he asked.
“Who?”
His eyes opened fully.
“Nothing.”
“You said a name.”
He rubbed one hand over his face.
“Ava is my niece.”
“I remember.”
“She was supposed to visit tomorrow.”
“That’s good.”
“No.”
The word came out with such force that he winced.
“Why not?”
“Because she can’t see me like this.”
“She’s eight. She’ll see that you’re hurt.”
“She’ll see what happens to people who get close to me.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
I pulled the chair closer.
“Liam, whatever happened to Daniel was not your fault.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Then tell me.”
He looked toward the curtains.
“I was driving.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“Where?”
“To a meeting.”
“With Daniel?”
“No. He was following me.”
“Why?”
“Because we argued.”
He closed his eyes.
“We argued about Ava. He wanted to take her away from Chicago. I told him he was overreacting. He said I cared more about business than family.”
His voice faltered.
“The last thing he said to me was that I would regret choosing work over him.”
I remained silent.
“An hour later, he was dead.”
“Was he driving the truck?”
“No.”
“Then you didn’t cause the accident.”
“I was supposed to meet him at the house. If I hadn’t kept him waiting—”
“You don’t know that anything would have changed.”
“I know what happened.”
“You know what you blame yourself for.”
He opened his eyes.
“You think there’s a difference?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me for a long time.
Then, slowly, he reached toward the bedside table.
His fingers found a key taped beneath the drawer.
“What is that?” I asked.
He held it out to me.
“Open the cabinet.”
I took the key.
The cabinet was narrow and made of dark wood. Inside were files, medication records, and several envelopes. On the top shelf sat a small metal box.
I opened it.
Inside was a folded newspaper clipping, a child’s drawing, and a photograph.
I lifted the photograph first.
It showed Daniel standing beside a woman I didn’t recognize. Between them stood Ava, smiling at the camera. Behind them was a familiar building.
The Mercer mansion.
I unfolded the newspaper clipping.
The headline read:
LOCAL DRIVER CLEARED IN FATAL CRASH AFTER BRAKE FAILURE INVESTIGATION
Below it was a photograph of a wrecked sedan.
My eyes moved to the date.
Six months earlier.
Then I saw the name of the driver.
Daniel Mercer.
My breath caught.
“Liam,” I whispered. “This says Daniel was driving.”
“He was.”
“Then why did you say you were
-END OF PART 2, –PRESS NEX PART IN BOTTOM OF PAGE TO READ NEXT PART
