Chapter 4 - A DEAD MAN'S NAME
No one spoke for several seconds.
Marcus looked frightened by the silence.
Mason looked confused.
Nathan forced his face to soften.
"Go finish your blocks, boys."
They hesitated.
I walked over and lowered myself to their height.
"Can you build me something impossible?"
Marcus frowned.
"Like what?"
"A tower taller than you."
Mason immediately objected.
"That's easy."
"Then taller than your dad."
Marcus looked at Nathan.
"That's actually hard."
"Exactly."
The twins returned to the rug.
Nathan waited until they were out of earshot.
Then he faced Gerald.
"Tell her."
Gerald looked at me.
"Dean Mercer was Mrs. Coleman's personal security driver."
"Was?"
"He died fourteen months ago."
"How?"
"Heart attack."
"Age?"
"Forty-one."
I looked at Nathan.
"Healthy?"
Nathan's expression had gone hard.
"Very."
Gerald continued.
"He collapsed at home."
"Autopsy?"
Nathan answered.
"Natural causes."
"Who confirmed that?"
His eyes flicked toward me.
"Trevor."
Of course.
I hated how unsurprising that was becoming.
"What connection did Dean have to the house?"
Gerald sat heavily at the table.
"He drove Mrs. Coleman almost everywhere."
"Was he here often?"
"Daily."
"Did he know maintenance contractors?"
"Possibly."
"Did he know about her environmental inspection?"
Gerald looked at Nathan.
That was answer enough.
Nathan stepped forward.
"What are you not telling me?"
Gerald's voice became quiet.
"Dean came to me two weeks before he died."
Nathan did not move.
"He said Mrs. Coleman believed something was wrong in the east wing."
My heart began pounding.
"What kind of wrong?" I asked.
"He didn't know."
Gerald's eyes stayed on Nathan.
"She had complained about headaches."
Nathan stared.
"Elena had migraines."
"Not before the renovation."
Nathan looked as though Gerald had struck him.
"You knew that?"
"I knew she mentioned headaches."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"She asked me not to."
"Why?"
"Because you were dealing with..."
Gerald stopped.
Nathan's face changed.
"Say it."
Gerald lowered his voice.
"The business."
The word landed differently in that room.
I had been careful not to ask what Nathan Coleman's business actually involved.
The agency had been equally careful.
Officially, he owned logistics companies, construction firms, restaurants, and real estate.
Unofficially, everyone in Connecticut with access to newspapers knew Nathan's family name carried a different kind of weight.
Gerald continued.
"Mrs. Coleman felt you had enough problems."
Nathan laughed once.
There was nothing amused in it.
"So my wife thought something in my house was making her sick, and everyone protected me from knowing?"
"She wasn't certain."
"She scheduled an environmental inspection."
"Without results."
"Because she died."
Gerald flinched.
Nathan noticed.
So did I.
"Why did you react like that?" I asked.
Gerald looked at me.
"Like what?"
"When he said she died."
"I didn't."
"You did."
Nathan's attention shifted.
"Gerald."
The older man's composure finally cracked.
"I don't know anything about the accident."
"No one accused you."
"I know."
"Then why say it?"
Silence.
Marcus's wooden blocks clattered in the next room.
The sound was absurdly normal.
Nathan leaned toward Gerald.
"Tell me everything."
Gerald rubbed both hands over his face.
"When Dean came to me, he said Mrs. Coleman had begun keeping notes."
"What notes?"
"Symptoms."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"Did you see them?"
"No."
"Did Dean?"
"I believe so."
"Why?"
"Because he told me she had written down dates."
"What dates?"
"Maintenance visits."
Nathan and I looked at each other.
Gerald continued.
"She noticed the smell."
The room seemed to shrink.
"What smell?" I asked.
He looked toward the mansion.
"Sweet."
I felt anger rise through me.
Eight months.
Three million dollars.
Dozens of doctors.
Two children fading in adjoining beds.
And the dead woman had noticed the same thing within minutes that I had noticed in a hallway.
"Did Elena tell Dr. Ashford?"
Nathan asked.
Gerald's answer came reluctantly.
"Yes."
"When?"
"About three weeks before the accident."
"What did he say?"
"That stress could heighten sensitivity to odors."
Nathan closed his eyes.
"He told her it was in her head."
"He told her grief and anxiety can affect perception."
"What grief?"
Gerald hesitated.
"Her father had recently died."
Nathan opened his eyes again.
"Convenient."
I returned to the maintenance binder.
"Where are the original records?"
"Those are originals."
"No."
I held up a page.
"They're too consistent."
Gerald looked offended.
"Meaning?"
"Paper ages."
I pointed to the corners.
"These sheets don't."
Nathan took one.
"What are you saying?"
"Somebody printed this binder recently."
Gerald stood.
"Impossible."
"Find me a record older than six months with a coffee stain, fold, handwritten correction, faded toner, anything."
He began flipping pages.
Nothing.
Every sheet looked nearly new.
Nathan stared at him.
"When was this binder last replaced?"
Gerald looked sick.
"I don't know."
"You're the house manager."
"I know."
"Then know."
"I don't."
Nathan walked away.
For several seconds, he stared through the cottage windows.
Then he pulled out his phone.
"Lock the estate down."
Gerald looked up.
Nathan continued speaking to whoever answered.
"No staff leaves."
A pause.
"No deliveries."
Another pause.
"Disable external remote access to the security system."
Gerald stiffened.
Nathan looked directly at him.
"Nobody touches the east wing."
He ended the call.
I shook my head.
"Too late."
Nathan turned.
"What?"
"If someone inside this house knows you've discovered the pattern, they'll start cleaning."
"I just locked the property down."
"Which tells them you're looking."
He stared at me.
"What should I have done?"
"Nothing."
His eyes darkened.
"Nothing?"
"Pretend you still believe the doctors."
"My sons were being poisoned in my own house."
"We don't know that."
"What else do you call it?"
"Exposure."
"To what?"
"I don't know."
"By who?"
"I don't know."
"Then stop telling me what I can't do."
I met his stare.
"Stop making it easier for whoever does know."
That hit him.
He became silent.
Then his phone rang again.
He answered immediately.
"What?"
His expression changed.
"Where?"
He listened.
"I'm coming."
He ended the call and looked at Gerald.
"Someone is in the east wing."
Gerald's face drained.
Nathan ran.
I followed.
Security had sealed the main staircase by the time we entered the mansion.
Two men in dark suits stood near the second-floor corridor.
One held a radio.
Nathan approached.
"Who?"
"We don't know."
"Camera?"
"Went black for forty-seven seconds."
Nathan stopped.
"Only this wing?"
"Yes."
He looked toward me.
My stomach tightened.
We entered the corridor.
Nothing appeared disturbed.
The sweet odor remained.
One security officer checked each bedroom.
Empty.
The playroom.
Empty.
Bathroom.
Empty.
Then I noticed the ventilation grille.
The polished screw was gone.
In its place was a darker one with paint around the edge.
"Don't touch anything."
Nathan followed my gaze.
"What?"
"The screw."
He moved closer.
I pointed without touching.
"Yesterday this one was bright."
Gerald stared.
"You're certain?"
"Yes."
Nathan looked at the security chief.
"Get forensic people."
The man hesitated.
Nathan's eyes sharpened.
"Now."
I stepped into the bedroom.
The boys' blankets remained on the beds exactly where we had left them.
Their toys had not moved.
The windows remained locked.
Then I saw something beneath Mason's bed.
A corner of paper.
I crouched.
Nathan stopped me.
"Don't touch it."
"Good."
He motioned to a security officer.
The man put on gloves and carefully retrieved it.
It was a photograph.
Nathan took one look and froze.
"What is it?" I asked.
He did not answer.
I stepped closer.
The photograph showed Elena Coleman standing beside a black SUV.
A man stood beside her.
He was broad-shouldered, dark-haired, perhaps forty.
Dean Mercer.
Someone had drawn a red line across his face.
On the back were five handwritten words.
SHE SHOULD HAVE STOPPED ASKING.
Nathan's breathing changed.
Gerald whispered something under his breath.
"What?" I asked.
He did not answer.
Nathan read the sentence again.
Then again.
"Whoever came in here wanted me to find this."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To make you angry."
"It worked."
"That's probably the point."
He looked at me.
"You think this is a distraction."
"I think people who are truly hiding evidence don't leave threatening photographs under beds."
Nathan's jaw tightened.
"So while we're looking at this..."
"Something else disappeared."
We all turned toward the ventilation grille.
The security chief ordered everyone back.
A forensic technician arrived twenty minutes later.
The grille was removed under controlled conditions.
Behind it sat a clean filter housing.
Too clean.
The technician examined it.
His expression changed.
"When was this installed?"
Gerald answered.
"Two years ago."
The technician shook his head.
"This housing was opened recently."
"How recently?" Nathan asked.
"Can't say."
He shone a light farther inside.
Then stopped.
"What?"
The technician did not answer.
He reached deeper with a camera probe.
The monitor showed a narrow duct.
Dust.
Metal.
A junction.
Then an empty bracket.
Something rectangular had clearly been mounted there.
It was gone.
The technician looked at Nathan.
"Whatever was attached inside this duct isn't here anymore."
Nathan's face became stone.
Someone had entered the boys' wing for forty-seven seconds.
Someone had replaced a screw.
Someone had removed something from inside the ventilation system.
And someone had left a photograph beneath Mason's bed to make sure we looked in the wrong direction.
That evening, after the house was searched twice, Gerald appeared at the guest cottage holding a cardboard archive box.
"I found something."
Nathan opened the door.
"What?"
Gerald set the box on the table.
"It was in Mrs. Coleman's old dressing room."
Nathan stared at it.
"We emptied that room after the funeral."
"Apparently not completely."
I opened the lid.
Inside were receipts.
Handwritten notes.
Old photographs.
A calendar.
And one small black notebook.
Nathan's hands trembled when he picked it up.
Elena's handwriting filled the pages.
Dates.
Headaches.
Nausea.
Strange smells.
Maintenance visits.
The final completed entry was written four days before her death.
I read it twice.
Nathan read it once.
Gerald turned away.
The line said:
Trevor says I'm imagining it.
The next line was darker, written with enough pressure to dent the paper.
I know what I smelled.
And beneath it, underlined three times:
ASK DOMINIC WHY HE CHANGED THE VENTS.
Nathan stopped breathing.
I looked at him.
"Who's Dominic?"
May you like
His face had gone completely blank.
"My brother."
