Chapter 4 - The Secrets of the East Wing
The sun was barely cresting the jagged Chicago skyline when I slipped out of the mansion and made my way across the wet lawns to the old brick carriage house converted into staff quarters.
Sophia was still fast asleep in her small bed, clutching a stuffed rabbit with one ear missing. I kissed her forehead, whispering a silent prayer of gratitude that she had been sitting at that table two nights ago. If she hadn't been watching, if she hadn't translated her observations into those frantic, desperate signs, Nathan Cole would have been dead and buried before the autumn leaves finished falling.
At 8:00 a.m., I clocked in for my normal morning shift, moving through the grand formal parlors with a feather duster and a heavy heart.
By 10:30 a.m., the opportunity I needed presented itself.
Dr. Marcus Vance, Nathan’s personal physician, arrived for his daily morning consultation. He was a sleek, silver-haired man in his late fifties with expensive Italian loafers, gold-rimmed glasses, and an air of permanent, condescending superiority. He carried a leather medical bag and was escorted directly to Nathan’s private second-floor study by Vanessa herself.
I waited fifteen minutes, then loaded a silver serving trolley with fresh coffee, crystal water carafes, and a selection of freshly baked pastries from the kitchen.
When I knocked on the study door and pushed it open, Dr. Vance was packing his stethoscope back into his bag, while Nathan sat slumped behind his massive mahogany desk, staring blankly out the window at the gardens.
“Thank you, my dear,” Vanessa said smoothly, waving me away with a dismissive flick of her manicured hand. “Just leave the tray on the side table near the fireplace. Mr. Cole is resting.”
“Of course, Ms. Hale,” I murmured, keeping my eyes properly lowered in the submissive, invisible manner of a well-trained maid.
I wheeled the cart forward, placing the coffee service neatly on the table. As I straightened up, I managed to bump the edge of the service tray against a stack of medical charts resting near Dr. Vance’s open briefcase, spilling a handful of loose informational pamphlets onto the carpet.
“Oh! I am so sorry, Dr. Vance, let me—please allow me—” I stammered, dropping to my knees.
“Clumsy girl,” Dr. Vance sighed irritably, bending down to help me scoop up the papers.
As our hands brushed against the carpet, I didn't just grab the pamphlets. My fingers slid swiftly, silently into the side pocket of his open leather medical bag, snagging a small, foil-wrapped packet of sterile specimen collection swabs and a plastic biohazard transport tube that he had left unzipped in the pouch.
I tucked the tube and swabs deep into the pocket of my oversized cleaning apron in one fluid, practiced motion.
“Got them all, sir. I’m so sorry for the intrusion,” I said, rising quickly and backing out of the room with the cart.
Dr. Vance didn't even look at me. He was already turning back to Vanessa, saying, “His vitals are stable, but continue the evening administration protocol exactly as prescribed. We don't want any cognitive spikes before the rehearsal dinner next week.”
Cognitive spikes.
Translation: Keep him heavily sedated and confused so he doesn't realize he's being slowly erased.
Thirty minutes later, I locked myself in the basement utility closet, pulled out the candy wrapper with the smear of liquid from Vanessa’s hidden stash, and used the sterile medical swab to collect a sample. I sealed the swab inside the biohazard tube, labeling it with a fictitious patient code using a black permanent marker.
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Now, I needed an analytical chemist who didn't charge five thousand dollars per test and wouldn't ask questions about why a maid was testing suspicious liquids from a billionaire's estate.
Fortunately, my older sister, Elena, worked part-time as a lab assistant in the biochemistry department at Northwestern University downtown.
