Chapter 2 - THE TABLET IN THE SHADOWS

The greenhouse was a sprawling glass structure attached to the south wing of the mansion, usually filled with the suffocating scent of blooming orchids and damp earth. Today, it smelled of copper and fear.

By the time Dominic and I rushed through the glass doors, two guards were already kneeling beside Mrs. Whitmore. The household supervisor was lying flat on her back on the damp stone path. Her severe face was slack, her lips carrying a terrifying, pale blue tint.

"Is she dead?" Dominic demanded, kneeling beside her.

"Barely breathing, Boss," one of the guards said, pressing two fingers to her neck. "Pulse is thread-thin. It looks like a heart attack."

I pushed past the heavy ferns, my nursing instincts kicking in despite my exhaustion. I had spent countless hours sitting beside my mother in the cardiac ward, watching patients code, memorizing the terrifying signs of a failing heart.

I knelt heavily onto the stones, ignoring the strain in my pregnant belly. I looked closely at Mrs. Whitmore’s eyes. They were half-open, her pupils reduced to tiny, pinpoint dots.

"This isn't a heart attack," I said, my voice shaking. I grabbed her wrist. Her skin was clammy, but her muscles were rigidly locked. "Her jaw is tight. She’s exhibiting signs of a paralytic overdose. Someone injected her with something."

Dominic stared at me, his gray eyes calculating. "Are you sure?"

"My mother is in a cardiac unit," I explained quickly. "I've seen patients react badly to certain concentrated beta-blockers. If someone gave her a massive dose of the wrong medication, it would mimic a natural cardiac event."

"The same medication found planted in your cleaning cart," Dominic realized, the pieces clicking together in his mind.

He stood up, his jaw set in pure stone. "Get the estate doctor down here immediately. Keep her alive. If she dies, the answers die with her."

Dominic turned and picked up the bloody silver money clip from where Rocco had left it on a potting table. He wiped the smear of blood away with his thumb, revealing the ornate C.R. engraved into the metal. Carlo Romano.

"My uncle planted the clip, poisoned her, and left her to die because she knew too much," Dominic murmured.

"Or," Victoria’s voice echoed through the greenhouse.

We both turned. Victoria stood in the doorway, wrapped in a luxurious cashmere shawl, looking perfectly composed. But as I looked closer, I noticed her hands were trembling slightly as she clutched the fabric.

"Or," Victoria continued, stepping inside, "Mrs. Whitmore stole the clip from Carlo, and Carlo caught her. You know your uncle's temper, Dominic. He’s always been brutal. He must have done this to her."

She was trying too hard. She was pushing the narrative entirely onto Carlo, desperate to distance herself from the woman currently dying on the floor.

"Go back to your room, Victoria," Dominic said coldly. "You are not permitted to roam the house."

Victoria’s elegant mask slipped. "I am your fiancée! I am going to be the lady of this house!"

"Right now, this house is a crime scene," Dominic fired back. "And until I know who has been torturing my father, you are nothing but a suspect. Get out."

Humiliation flared in Victoria’s eyes. She shot me a look of absolute hatred before turning on her expensive heels and storming out of the greenhouse.

Dominic turned to me. "Emily. You need to rest. The stress is not good for the baby. Rocco will escort you to a secure guest suite on the second floor. You are no longer staff. You are under my personal protection."

"But I need my things from the staff quarters," I protested.

"I'll have a maid bring them up," Dominic insisted gently. "Go."

An hour later, I was sitting on the edge of a massive, silk-draped bed in a guest room that was larger than my entire childhood home. The sheer luxury felt suffocating. I rubbed my swollen belly, feeling Grace kick against my ribs.

A young maid named Sarah knocked nervously and entered, carrying my small, worn suitcase and a bundle of my gray uniforms.

"I brought your things, Miss Emily," Sarah whispered, terrified of the guards standing outside the door. "I also brought the extra aprons you left in the laundry room."

"Thank you, Sarah," I said, taking the bundle.

When Sarah left, I began folding the aprons. As I picked up the last one—a spare apron I had borrowed from Mrs. Whitmore’s personal supply closet two days ago when mine was stained—I felt a crinkle of paper in the deep front pocket.

I reached inside and pulled out a small, crumpled slip of thermal paper.

It was a receipt. A pawn shop ticket.

I smoothed it out on the mattress, my brow furrowing as I read the faded ink. The ticket was dated two weeks ago. An item had been pawned for twenty-five thousand dollars.

But it wasn't the amount that made my heart stop. It was the address of the pawn shop printed at the top.

142 State Street, Albany, New York.

Albany. The city where my mother was hospitalized. The city I had fled when I couldn't pay her bills.

Why would Mrs. Whitmore travel three hours north to pawn something in Albany? It made no sense. Unless she wasn't the one who pawned it. Unless she had simply found the ticket and was holding onto it as blackmail material against the person who did.

"Answer One, Open Two." The silver clip pointed to Carlo, but this pawn ticket pointed to a completely different mystery.

I needed to tell Dominic.

I hurried to the door, asking the guard to take me to Dominic’s office. I found him staring out the window, a glass of amber whiskey in his hand.

I placed the pawn ticket on his desk.

"I found this in an apron belonging to Mrs. Whitmore," I said. "It’s from a pawn shop in Albany. Someone in this house pawned an item for twenty-five thousand dollars. Why would a billionaire's family use a pawn shop?"

Dominic picked up the slip. His eyes narrowed. "They wouldn't. Unless they needed untraceable cash. Cash that my accountants wouldn't see."

Before he could say another word, my cell phone buzzed loudly in my pocket.

I jumped. I pulled it out, seeing the caller ID. Albany Medical Center.

Panic instantly gripped my throat. I answered quickly, putting it on speaker so Dominic could hear. "Hello? Is my mother okay?"

"Miss Carter," a familiar administrative voice said, though she sounded nervous. "Your mother is medically stable, but I’m calling regarding her transfer."

"Transfer?" I gasped. "What transfer? I never authorized a transfer!"

"I know, dear," the administrator said apologetically. "But a woman just arrived at the billing department. She paid off your mother's entire outstanding balance of forty-two thousand dollars in cash. She presented a signed power of attorney document, authorizing us to move your mother to a state-run hospice facility immediately."

State-run hospice. It was where people went to die when nobody could afford to keep them alive. It was a death sentence for a woman requiring active cardiac rehab.

"Stop the transfer!" I screamed into the phone. "That document is a forgery! Do not let them move her!"

"Miss Carter, her bags are already packed. The woman was very insistent. She said she was acting on behalf of your family."