Chapter 6 - The Anatomy of Betrayal
"Get out," Vincent said.
His voice was terrifyingly calm, but the vein pulsing violently at his temple betrayed the volcano of rage threatening to erupt inside him.
Hannah grabbed Lily’s hand, her face pale as chalk, and scrambled backward out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her. She knew better than to question a man like Vincent Rourke when his eyes turned into chips of glacier ice.
Only Margaret remained. She stood beside the nightstand, her posture rigid, her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron. The warm, comforting grandmother persona was completely gone, replaced by a chilling, stony composure.
"Vincent," Margaret began, her voice steady. "You are emotional. The shock of the child speaking—"
"Shut your mouth," Vincent stepped forward, closing the distance between them until he towered over her. "For four years, I was told my son was deaf. For four years, I carried him to specialists who looked at charts you and Bell prepared. For four years, I watched him sit in this room like a ghost."
He looked down at the small blue pill resting on the saucer beside the warm milk.
"What is that?" Vincent pointed a trembling finger at the pill.
"It's a stabilizer, Vincent. Dr. Bell prescribed it to calm his nervous system—"
"Dr. Adrian Bell," Vincent repeated the name as if tasting poison on his tongue. He reached out with a hand like a steel vise, gripping Margaret’s wrist with enough pressure to make her wince. "You’ve been slipping this into his breakfast every single morning. What does it actually do, Margaret? Does it calm him, or does it paralyze his cognitive motor functions? Does it keep him docile, trapped inside his own body so he couldn't speak or respond to the world?"
Margaret didn't answer. She simply stared back at him with cold, unblinking eyes.
"Who else is in on this?" Vincent demanded, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Is it just Bell, or are there others? Why would anyone do this to a child? What leverage do they have over you?"
Before Margaret could speak, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the hallway outside.
Vincent spun around, letting go of Margaret’s wrist. He lunged for the door and yanked it open. The hallway was empty, but lying on the floor near the service stairs was a discarded burner phone, its screen glowing with an incoming text message from an unknown number:
“The game is over, Vincent. If you want to know why your wife really died on the Cross Island Parkway four years ago, leave the estate alone and come to Bell’s Manhattan clinic right now. Come alone.”
Vincent stared at the screen, the blood draining completely from his face. Claire. Her death hadn't been an accident.
May you like
He turned back toward the bedroom, but Margaret was already moving toward the service stairs with surprising speed. With a growl of pure fury, Vincent vaulted across the hallway, intercepting her at the top of the landing. He threw her against the oak wall, pinning her securely.
"You're not going anywhere," Vincent snarled. "We are going to have a long conversation about Dr. Adrian Bell. And then, we are going to pay him a very personal visit."
