Chapter 3 - The Attack at Mercer House
The breach lasted eleven minutes.
Crosby's men never reached the mansion.
My security team intercepted them near the south wall.
By the time I returned upstairs, police sirens echoed somewhere beyond the estate.
Prescott walked beside me.
“Three detained. Others fled.”
“Crosby?”
“Not there.”
“Of course not.”
Cowards rarely attended their own disasters.
When I reached the twins' room, I stopped.
Music was playing.
Marisol stood in the middle of the bedroom wearing the pink plastic crown.
Blythe was sitting upright.
Jonah was holding the cracked microphone.
“Again!” Blythe demanded.
“No.”
Jonah pointed at Marisol.
“She has to sing.”
Marisol shook her head.
“I've been advised my singing violates several international treaties.”
Blythe spotted me.
“Daddy!”
I entered.
“Everything okay?”
“Marisol can't sing.”
“Neither can your father.”
Both children stared at me.
Marisol smiled.
“You just made a terrible mistake.”
Five minutes later, I was holding the microphone.
I hadn't sung since Genevieve was alive.
I was terrible.
The twins loved it.
From the doorway, Prescott stared at me like he'd witnessed a supernatural event.
“Say one word,” I warned him.
“I value my employment.”
For the first time in months, my children fell asleep smiling.
Then Dr. Yates arrived.
He examined them.
“They ate?”
“Some,” I said.
“Both?”
“Yes.”
He checked the chart.
“Blythe's temperature is down.”
Marisol leaned against the wall.
Dr. Yates noticed her.
“Who's this?”
“The nanny.”
“We discussed infection exposure.”
“She follows protocol.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Lawson, these children are extremely fragile.”
“So I've been told.”
After he left, Marisol touched my arm.
“He doesn't like me.”
“He doesn't like anyone.”
“Does he like you?”
“No.”
“That makes me feel better.”
I looked down at her hand.
She immediately removed it.
“Sorry.”
I should have been annoyed.
Instead, I realized nobody had touched me casually since Genevieve died.
The next morning, something changed.
Jonah asked for pancakes.
Blythe demanded chocolate chips.
Odette cried in the kitchen.
Marisol began turning ordinary moments into ridiculous games.
Medicine became “dragon poison.”
Walking to the bathroom became “crossing enemy territory.”
A thermometer became an “interrogation device.”
Three days passed.
Then four.
Dr. Yates called me into the hall.
“Something is happening.”
My heart stopped.
“Bad?”
“I'm not sure.”
“Franklin.”
“Their counts increased slightly.”
“How slightly?”
“Not enough to celebrate.”
“Are they recovering?”
“I didn't say that.”
“Could they?”
He looked through the glass.
“I don't know.”
That was more hope than I'd had four days earlier.
That afternoon, Prescott entered my office.
“We found something.”
His expression told me I wouldn't like it.
“What?”
“Marisol lied.”
I stood.
“About?”
“Her last employer.”
He placed photographs on my desk.
Marisol standing outside a townhouse.
Marisol beside an older woman.
And Marisol speaking with a man I recognized immediately.
Crosby Vane.
The room went cold.
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
My hand closed around the photograph.
“Bring her.”
Minutes later, Marisol entered.
She saw the pictures.
Her face drained.
I held one up.
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
Prescott moved behind her.
“How?”
She looked at me.
“Lawson—”
“Answer.”
“He hired me.”
“For what?”
“To care for his mother.”
Prescott scoffed.
“Convenient.”
“It's true.”
I stepped closer.
“You worked inside Crosby Vane's house?”
“Yes.”
“And somehow ended up at mine?”
“Yes.”
“Knowing my children's medical condition?”
Her eyes hardened.
“I didn't come here for Crosby.”
“Then prove it.”
“I can't.”
That was the wrong answer.
I pointed toward the door.
“Leave.”
Her face fell.
“Lawson.”
“Now.”
“What about Jonah and Blythe?”
“You don't say their names.”
“Please.”
“Prescott.”
He stepped forward.
Marisol backed away.
Then she said something that stopped me.
“Crosby knows they're sick.”
Silence.
I turned.
“What?”
“He knew before I did.”
Prescott stared at her.
“How?”
“I don't know.”
She reached into her pocket.
Prescott moved instantly.
“Slowly.”
She pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“I stole this from his study before I left.”
She handed it to me.
It contained dates.
Medication names.
Lab results.
Jonah.
Blythe.
My children's confidential medical information.
And beneath everything was one name.
May you like
Dr. Franklin Yates.
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