THE MAID, THE MUTE HEIR, AND THE MOTHER IN THE WALL

I couldn't breathe. The walls of the damp orphanage seemed to close in around me, pressing the air from my lungs. The image on Luca’s phone—my brother, helpless, a needle resting against his jugular—burned into my retinas.

“Thomas,” I choked out, my hands flying to my mouth.

Luca’s expression shifted instantly from grief to lethal focus. He pocketed the phone and grabbed my shoulders, shaking me slightly to snap me out of my panic.

“Emily, listen to me. Look at the blood on that veil.”

I forced myself to look down. The dark red stain was thick, almost crusty in the center.

“It’s too bright,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a rapid, tactical whisper. “Blood oxidizes. It turns brown when it dries. This looks like theatrical blood. Or paint. Daniel signed ‘paint’ back at the house, didn't he?”

My mind raced. “Yes. He ruined Vanessa’s portrait with paint. He knows what it smells like.”

“Marco wants us terrified. He wants us paralyzed by grief so we follow his breadcrumbs. The train ticket.” Luca snatched the ticket from my hand. “Why is your name on this?”

“I don’t know!” I cried, tears finally spilling over. “I swear, I don’t know! The clinic requires a sponsor’s signature for all of Thomas's treatments. I use ‘E. Carter’ on all the hospital forms.”

Luca’s eyes narrowed. “Hospital forms. Marco knows you go to Mercy Care. He knows I pay for it. He set this up to make it look like you were helping Elena escape to Seattle, framing you as an accomplice so I wouldn't trust you.”

“Why me?”

“Because Daniel trusts you. You’re the only one who can translate for him. If Marco removes you, Daniel is silenced again.” Luca picked up his gun, checking the magazine with terrifying precision. “We’re not going to Seattle. We are going to Mercy Care.”

“But the man with the syringe—he’ll kill Thomas!”

“Marco is a coward,” Luca said coldly. “He’s using a proxy. We do not negotiate, Emily. We eliminate.”

We ran back through the rain. I unlocked the SUV. Daniel was still asleep in the back, clutching my coat. I climbed in beside him, my entire body shaking.

The drive back toward Chicago was a blur of neon lights and slicing rain. Luca didn't call the police. He called his old crew. The men who had served his father. Men who weren't on the payroll Marco controlled.

“Surround the clinic. No sirens,” Luca ordered into the Bluetooth. “Nobody leaves. Not the doctors, not the nurses. Lock it down.”

When we pulled into the parking lot of Mercy Care, the rain had reduced to a heavy drizzle. The massive glass doors of the clinic were dark. Only emergency lights flickered in the corridors. It was 2:00 AM.

“Stay close behind me,” Luca told me. He unbuckled Daniel, gently lifting the sleeping boy into his arms. He wasn't going to leave his son alone in the car again.

We slipped through the side loading dock. The smell of antiseptic stung my nose, instantly reminding me of the countless hours I’d spent sitting by Thomas’s bedside.

We moved silently down the east wing corridor. Room 412. Thomas’s room.

The door was cracked open. Luca handed Daniel to me, raising his weapon as he kicked the door wide.

I screamed, squeezing my eyes shut, expecting to see my brother dead.

“Emily, look,” Luca commanded.

I opened my eyes. Thomas was in his bed, breathing softly, completely unharmed. The wheelchair in the corner was empty.

I rushed to his side, checking his pulse. It was strong and steady.

“The video was pre-recorded,” Luca growled, scanning the room. “He recorded it hours ago to lure us here. If Thomas is safe… then who is this trap really for?”

Before I could answer, Daniel began to squirm in my arms. He was awake. His eyes were wide, staring at the hallway. He pointed a trembling finger toward the heavy steel doors at the end of the hall—the Hydrotherapy Ward.

Faintly, echoing off the tile walls, I heard it.

A child singing.

Hush, little baby, don't say a word...

It was the same melody from the music box.

Luca moved with deadly speed, his gun leveled. I followed, carrying Daniel, my heart threatening to beat out of my chest.

We pushed through the double doors into the dimly lit hydrotherapy room. The massive rehabilitation pool took up the center of the room, drained of water.

Standing at the edge of the deep, empty pool was a little girl.

She was no older than four. She wore a ragged pink hospital gown. Her dark curls fell wildly around her pale face. And on her wrist, glinting in the emergency lights, was a heavy silver bracelet.

Sophia.

Luca dropped to his knees, his gun lowering. “Sophia? Piccola mia?”

The little girl turned around. Her eyes were terrified, swollen from crying. In her small, shaking hand, she held a silver Zippo lighter, the flame burning bright.

And then the smell hit me.

It wasn't bleach or antiseptic.