Chapter 3 - The Interrogation in the West Parlor
Elena stepped further into the room, her bare feet making no sound against the thick Persian rug. She tossed her long, dark blonde hair over her shoulder and looked directly at her brother with an expression of practiced exhaustion.
“Honestly, Gideon, if this little dramaturgy is about the nurse’s clumsy exit, I suggest you just pay her severance package and let her catch an Uber to the nearest clinic,” Elena said, her tone dripping with casual condescension. “They all trip over their own sensible shoes eventually. It’s a genetic flaw in the nursing profession, I’m convinced.”
Gideon didn't move. He stood completely still, his arms folded across his chest, his grey eyes locked onto his sister with a terrifying lack of emotion.
“She didn't trip, Elena,” Gideon said quietly.
“Oh, please. Don’t tell me you’re going to launch a federal investigation into a spilled bottle of cooking wine or whatever she was carrying—”
“It was olive oil,” Gideon interrupted.
Elena’s eyelids fluttered for a fraction of a second—a micro-expression of hesitation that would have gone unnoticed by anyone who hadn't spent years studying human deceit in emergency rooms and boardrooms.
“Well,” Elena recovered quickly, smoothing the silk of her robe. “The kitchen staff are notoriously messy. Perhaps cook left a tin out. It’s hardly my concern.”
“The kitchen staff don't stock imported Tuscan olive oil in unmarked glass decanters on the back stairs,” Gideon said, his voice dropping into that low, lethal register that made even Walter step back half a pace. “That particular oil is kept exclusively in the butler’s pantry, locked behind a biometric vault that only three people in this entire estate possess codes for: Walter, myself... and you.”
The air in the room instantly grew thin.
Elena let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, though the sound lacked its previous theatrical conviction.
“Are you actually sitting there accusing your own flesh and blood of... of greasing a staircase?” She pressed a manicured hand to her chest, feigning deep injury. “Because of some pathetic little nurse who can’t even walk down a flight of stairs without making a spectacle of herself? Have you lost your mind, Gideon?”
“Ten nurses, Elena,” Gideon said, taking a slow, deliberate step toward her. “Ten women in eight months. Every single one of them reported ‘accidents’—slips, ruined uniforms, locked doors, poisoned tea that made them violently ill. And every single one of them quit by Friday.”
“They were incompetent!” Elena snapped, her composure finally cracking at the edges, a flash of genuine panic leaking through her carefully painted facade. “They couldn't handle the old man! They were gold-digging frauds trying to squeeze a pension out of our father!”
“Adeline didn't quit,” Gideon noted, his gaze never leaving her face. “Even with a fractured radius and a concussion, she’s sitting right here asking when she can get back to administering my father’s cardiac meds.”
I opened my eyes, watching the exchange between brother and sister. For all of Gideon’s reputation as a ruthless syndicate boss who ran the East Coast shipping lanes with an iron fist, watching him dissect his own sister’s malice was a masterclass in psychological coldness.
“You wanted her out,” Gideon stated flatly. “Just like you wanted the others out.”
“I wanted competence!” Elena shrieked, her voice echoing off the antique plaster molding. “Father needs a specialist, not some discount-store nurse you picked up off an agency roster in Queens to save a few dollars!”
“She graduated top of her class at Columbia, Elena, and she was hand-selected by Dr. Vance himself because our father’s heart condition requires precision care,” Gideon said, his voice hard as granite. “So let’s stop pretending this is about credentials.”
“Then what is it about?!” Elena demanded, stepping up to him, her face flushed with genuine fury. “What are you accusing me of? Attempted murder? Over a nurse? Listen to yourself! You’re turning into a paranoid monster just like Father!”
Before Gideon could answer, a loud, ragged cough echoed from the archway behind Walter.
We all turned.
There, leaning heavily against a wooden walking cane in the doorway, stood the patriarch of the family, Arthur Marquetti.
He was dressed in a silk bathrobe, his face pale and lined with the ravages of his recent stroke, but his dark eyes—the exact same fierce, predatory eyes as his son’s—were burning with an acute, terrifying clarity.
“She didn't want the nurses to leave because of their credentials, boy,” the old man croaked, his voice like grinding stones.
Elena froze. All the color drained entirely from her face, leaving her looking stark white against her silk robe.
“Father,” Elena whispered, her voice trembling for the first time. “Go back to bed. You shouldn't be out of your room—”
“Shut your mouth, girl,” Arthur snapped, pointing his cane directly at her. He took a slow, painful step into the parlor, glaring at his daughter with unadulterated contempt. “I’ve been trapped in that upstairs bedroom for a year, but I’m not blind, and I’m not senile.”
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He turned his gaze toward Gideon.
“She wasn't trying to scare off the nurses because she cared about my health, Gideon,” the old man said, his chest heaving with exertion as Walter rushed forward to steady his elbow. “She was trying to hide what’s missing from the third-floor safe.”
