Chapter 3 - THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR IN THE EAST WING
The heavy oak door of Helena Moretti’s bedroom stood slightly ajar.
A pale beam of light cut across the dark hallway carpet. Inside, a soft, trembling voice whimpered, “Please... please leave me alone.”
Richard didn’t knock. He slammed his shoulder against the door, shattering the latch and sending the heavy wood crashing into the wall.
“Chloe!” Richard roared, bursting into the room.
I rushed in right behind him, flicking the wall switch. The crystal chandelier flickered to life, illuminating a room that looked like a shrine frozen in time. Lace curtains, antique vanity sets, and framed photographs of a smiling brunette woman lining the walls.
In the center of the room, standing beside the four-poster bed with a leather medical bag in his hand, was an elderly man with sharp gray hair and a cold, clinical expression.
Dr. Edward Whitmore.
And huddled in the corner near the window, clutching a stuffed rabbit to her chest, was fourteen-year-old Chloe, her eyes wide with unadulterated terror.
“Dad!” Chloe sobbed, scrambling across the rug and throwing her arms around Richard’s waist.
Richard dropped to his knees, wrapping his massive arms around his daughter, pressing his face into her dark hair. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you. Dad is here.” He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto the doctor with a menace that could curdle blood. “Edward. You brave, stupid bastard.”
Dr. Whitmore didn't drop his bag. He didn't run. He adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles, offering a calm, unnerving smile.
“Good evening, Richard,” the doctor said, his voice smooth and professional, completely out of place in a room filled with Mafia tension. “I must say, your new wife lacks subtlety. Telling me to come back tonight to finish the search while you were downstairs cutting a wedding cake? Amateur hour.”
Richard stood up slowly, gently pushing Chloe behind him, keeping her shielded by his broad body. He stepped toward the doctor.
“You killed my first wife,” Richard said, each word dropping like a lead weight. “You poisoned Helena in her sleep because she found your bank accounts.”
“Helena was a liability,” Dr. Whitmore replied smoothly, not taking a single step back. “She was digging into medical trials that the syndicate—and your own business partners—were funding through the foundation. We simply administered a compound that mimicked a massive stroke. Clean. Untraceable.”
“And Vanessa?” Richard snarled. “Why was she helping you?”
“Vanessa is my niece,” Dr. Whitmore smiled faintly. “She didn’t marry you for love, Richard. She married you because after ten years, you changed the combination to the wall safe behind Helena’s portrait. Vanessa needed to get inside that safe to retrieve the original clinical trial logs before the federal grand jury subpoenas them next week.”
Answer One: Dr. Edward Whitmore was Vanessa’s uncle, and Helena’s murder was executed to cover up illegal clinical trials funded by the syndicate.
Open Two: What was inside the wall safe behind Helena’s portrait? And why did Dr. Whitmore have a syringe in his medical bag?
I looked past the doctor, my eyes landing on the large, ornate oil painting of Helena Moretti hanging above the fireplace. The frame was slightly askew. The brass dial of a heavy wall safe was visible behind the canvas.
“Dad,” I whispered, stepping forward. “He was trying to open the safe.”
Dr. Whitmore’s eyes flicked toward me for a split second. A cold, calculating gleam entered his gaze. He slowly reached his hand into the open leather medical bag resting on the vanity table.
“You know, Emma—is it?—you shouldn't stay up so late,” the doctor murmured.
Before Richard could blink, Dr. Whitmore whipped his hand out of the bag. He wasn't holding a document. He was holding a heavy glass syringe filled with a clear, bubbling liquid.
With terrifying speed, the elderly doctor lunged past Richard, grabbing fourteen-year-old Chloe by the arm and pressing the needle directly against her neck.
“Stay back, Richard!” Dr. Whitmore screamed, his voice cracking with sudden desperation. “One step closer, and your daughter gets a dose of potassium chloride straight to the carotid! She’ll be gone in ten seconds!”
Chloe let out a piercing, terrified shriek. “Dad! Help me!”
Richard froze.
The feared Mafia boss of Chicago, a man who had survived car bombs, federal indictments, and turf wars, stood paralyzed with his hands raised in the air. The color had entirely drained from his face.
“Edward... listen to me,” Richard pleaded, his voice cracking with a raw, agonizing paternal terror. “Let her go. Take the ledger. Take whatever is in the safe. Just don't touch my little girl.”
“Open the safe, Richard!” the doctor shrieked, pressing the needle deeper until a tiny drop of blood welled up on Chloe’s pale skin. “Open it now, or I swear to God I’ll orphan you twice in one night!”
My mind raced. I looked at the wall safe, then at the doctor’s hand gripping the syringe, and finally down at my pocket.
The envelope.
The envelope Helena had hidden in the desk downstairs.
IF I DIE, CHECK BRIAR LANE.
May you like
What if the safe wasn't what Vanessa and the doctor thought it was? What if Helena had left something else behind?
I quietly slipped my hand into my apron pocket, my fingers wrapping around the cream-colored paper.
