Chapter 4 - THE TRAP DOOR
Martha stared at the photograph inside the silver watch, the room spinning around her.
It was a grainy surveillance shot, clearly taken from the security cameras at St. Jude’s Hospital. There she was, in her blue scrubs, looking exhausted after a fourteen-hour shift.
"You lied to me," Martha whispered, her voice shaking with betrayal. She thrust the open watch toward the bathtub. "You didn't just 'know' about me. You were watching me before I even lost my license. You sought me out!"
Maxwell didn’t flinch. He leaned back against the wet porcelain, his eyes heavy with dark exhaustion. "I didn't cause your firing, Martha. But when I found out Vincent’s people were the ones who bribed your attending physician to frame you, I made sure my HR department reached out with a job offer."
"Vincent framed me? Why?!"
"Because Vincent knew my muscles were atrophying. He knew I needed a specialized physical therapy nurse, but he refused to hire one. He wanted me to rot in this chair. So, I had my loyal guys look for a nurse who was desperate, someone who had just lost everything and needed a discreet, high-paying gig." Maxwell’s jaw tightened. "I needed you here, Martha. But Vincent found out you were coming. He expedited your firing to make you completely dependent on the Rourke paycheck. He thinks he owns you now."
Martha’s mind raced. The catastrophic medication error. The vials swapped in the supply closet. Her career of saving lives, destroyed in a single afternoon—all orchestrated by mobsters playing a chess game she didn't even know existed.
"He ruined my life," she breathed, tears of pure rage pricking her eyes.
"He ruined both our lives," Maxwell corrected softly. "Help me get my legs back, Martha. Help me take my family back. And I swear on my dead wife's soul, I will give you the evidence to clear your name and get your license back."
Before Martha could answer, a sharp rap echoed on the bedroom door.
"Mr. Rourke?" called a clipped, authoritative woman's voice.
Maxwell’s eyes widened. "Miss Delaney. The head housekeeper. Hide the watch."
Martha jammed the silver watch into her apron pocket just as the bathroom door swung open.
Miss Delaney was a tall, skeletal woman in her late fifties, wearing a pristine grey uniform. Her eyes were sharp, calculating, and completely devoid of warmth. She surveyed the steamy room, her gaze lingering a second too long on Martha’s flushed face.
"Martha. I was unaware you had been reassigned to bathing duties," Miss Delaney said smoothly.
"I... I was just bringing the towels," Martha stammered, smoothing her apron.
"Indeed." Miss Delaney looked at Maxwell, who had expertly slumped back into his helpless posture. "Your brother asked me to ensure you were dressed, sir. And Martha, your son is waiting in the kitchen. He is quite a noisy child."
Martha’s maternal panic spiked again. "I'll go to him right now."
"Before you do," Miss Delaney said, stepping aside to block the doorway, "you have a new assignment. Since you are so eager to work on the upper floors, Vincent has decided you will be the primary caretaker for little Chloe. You will move your things into the adjoining room."
Martha looked at Maxwell, who gave the barest, imperceptible nod.
"Yes, Miss Delaney," Martha said.
"Good. Come with me."
Martha followed the rigid housekeeper out of the master suite, down the sprawling, velvet-lined hallway of the third floor. The house was a fortress of mahogany and silence.
Miss Delaney stopped in front of a heavy white door at the end of the hall. She turned to Martha, her voice dropping to a hiss.
"Let's understand each other, Martha," Delaney said coldly. "I know Vincent brought you here. I know he intends to use you to keep tabs on his brother. But if you think you can play both sides in this house, you will find yourself at the bottom of Narragansett Bay."
Martha swallowed hard, realizing with a jolt that Miss Delaney wasn't loyal to Maxwell. She was Vincent's eyes and ears.
"I'm just here to clean and watch the children," Martha lied flawlessly.
Delaney sneered and pushed the door open.
The bedroom was painfully beautiful, painted in soft lavenders and filled with expensive toys. Sitting in the middle of a massive rug was a little girl with dark, sorrowful eyes. Chloe.
But Chloe wasn't alone.
Sitting next to the traumatized little girl, building a tower out of wooden blocks, was Martha’s seven-year-old son, Leo.
"Mommy!" Leo cheered, jumping up and running to hug Martha’s legs.
Martha dropped to her knees, burying her face in her son's neck, breathing in the scent of his generic shampoo. He was safe. For now.
"I'll leave you to get acquainted," Miss Delaney said from the doorway. "Oh, and Martha? When you unpack Chloe’s winter clothes from the cedar chest... ignore the smell. Moths can be terrible this time of year."
The door clicked shut, locking from the outside.
Martha frowned. She hugged Leo tight, then stood and walked over to the heavy cedar chest at the foot of Chloe's bed. The little girl watched her with wide, silent eyes.
Martha unlatched the heavy bronze clasps and threw open the lid.
It wasn't the smell of mothballs that hit her. It was the overwhelming, sickening stench of dried blood.
Lying on top of a pile of pink winter coats was a man’s leather jacket, slashed to ribbons and stained deep, rust-brown.
May you like
Pinned to the collar was a note written in neat, elegant handwriting.
She knows too much. Get rid of the nurse tonight.
