Chapter 3
The floorboards of the East Wing did not creak if one walked directly above the floor joists, a trick I had learned during my third week of night shifts in this cavernous house. Outside, the wind rattled the leaded glass of the tall casement windows, casting angular lattices of moonlight across the Persian runners. I kept my hand pressed against the warm plastic casing of the charting tablet in my sweater pocket, every fiber of my attention tuned to the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock at the bend of the corridor.
The administrative office door was heavy mahogany, fitted with a brass handle that usually turned with a dry, metallic click. Tonight, however, it yielded with a soft, oiled slide that betrayed recent maintenance. Julian left nothing to chance when it came to the estate’s inner workings. Inside, the air smelled of old paper, floor wax, and the faint, sweet residue of pipe tobacco that the old master had abandoned years ago. I pulled a small penlight from my pocket, shielding the lens with my thumb so that only a thin crescent of amber light illuminated the brass dial of the wall safe behind the mahogany writing desk.
Mrs. Gable’s directions had been precise: the third drawer on the left held the ledger key, tucked behind a false back of cedarwood. My fingers found the sliding panel, felt the slight resistance of old glue, and pressed. A tiny wooden tongue slipped free, dropping a small brass key into my palm with a sound no louder than a falling leaf.
I knelt before the wall safe, sliding the key into the tumbler. It turned with a heavy, satisfying clunk. The heavy steel door swung open an inch, exhaling a pocket of cold, stale air. Inside sat three neat stacks of pharmacy receipts, blue-tinted carbon copies that recorded every controlled substance delivered to the residence since the master’s stroke. I flicked my penlight wider, scanning the dates. Three years ago, right around the time of the sudden medical decline, the signature authorizing the sedative shipments changed. The sweeping, eccentric script of the elderly man vanished, replaced by the sharp, angular strokes of Julian's hand.
May you like
A page caught my eye—a supplemental order placed just last Tuesday, listing a high-potency neurological depressant designed to maintain a vegetative state in geriatric patients. It was signed not by Dr. Hayes, but by Julian acting under a disputed power of attorney. I pulled the papers from the metal shelf, folding the thin blue sheets carefully and sliding them into the inner pocket of my beige knit top.
Then, a sharp metallic click echoed from the outer hallway. It was not the wind. It was the distinct sound of a brass key turning in the main door of the administrative suite.
