Chapter 3 - Whispers in the LibraryBy midnight, the storm had transformed into a relentless downpour, turning the winding coastal roads around Rourke House into slick ribbons of black asphalt. Most of the staff had retired to their quarters in the East Wing, leaving the cavernous halls of the main mansion buried in heavy, oppressive silence.
I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Maxwell’s foot jerking away from the cold tap, and the look of raw terror that had followed.
“Martha... lock the door.”
The command echoed in my mind. Why had he locked himself in with me? Was he afraid of outsiders seeing him move, or was he afraid of someone in the house finding out?
Needing air—or at least a glass of water—I slipped out of my basement bedroom, wearing soft-soled slippers and a dark cardigan over my nightshirt. I padded quietly up the service stairs toward the ground-floor kitchen.
As I passed the grand oak-paneled library near the back of the east corridor, a faint sliver of amber light caught my eye.
The library door was cracked open by an inch.
I froze. No one was supposed to be awake at this hour. Miss Delaney ran a strict schedule, and the kitchen staff followed it religiously. Curious and cautious, I crept closer to the door, pressing my back against the wood-paneled wall and peering through the narrow gap.
Inside, sitting at the mahogany writing desk, was Dr. Julian Vance.
Vance was Maxwell’s personal physician—a tall, impeccably groomed man in his late fifties with silvering hair and wire-rimmed glasses, paid an astronomical retainer to live on the estate and monitor Maxwell’s recovery. Or so I had been told.
Right now, Dr. Vance didn't look like a compassionate healer.
He was holding a small glass vial up to the desk lamp, examining the amber liquid inside with narrow, calculating eyes. On the blotter before him lay an open medical ledger, filled with neat, handwritten rows of medication dosages.
“Damn it,” Vance muttered under his breath, setting the vial down with a soft click.
He reached for a secure landline phone resting on the corner of the desk, dialed a sequence of numbers from memory, and waited.
I held my breath, straining my ears to catch every syllable.
“It’s Vance,” the doctor said into the receiver, his voice cold and clipped. “We have a problem... No, he didn't walk. But his sensory thresholds are shifting faster than projected. The dosage we've been maintaining isn't suppressing the peripheral nerve regeneration anymore... Yes. If he keeps this up, muscle memory will start firing within the month... I know what’s at stake. If Maxwell stands up, the entire board falls apart... Double the evening sedative. And make sure Delaney swaps out the physical therapy liniment with the high-potency blocker before tomorrow morning.”
My blood ran ice cold.
The evening sedative.
The physical therapy liniment with the high-potency blocker.
They weren't treating Maxwell’s paralysis.
They were inducing it.
Someone inside Rourke House—trusted insiders like Dr. Vance and Miss Delaney—was systematically drugging Maxwell every single day, keeping his nervous system suppressed to ensure he remained trapped in that wheelchair.
Vance hung up the phone with a sharp click, grabbed the glass vial, and stood up from the desk.
Panic surged through my chest. If he walked out that door and found me standing in the hallway, I wouldn't live to see sunrise.
I spun around on my heel and sprinted silently down the corridor toward the service staircase, taking the steps two at a time in the dark until I tumbled back into the safety of my basement room. I slammed the door shut, locking it instantly, and leaned back against the wood, gasping for air.
The realization hit me with crushing weight.
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Maxwell wasn't just hiding his recovery from his underworld rivals. He was being poisoned by the people closest to him.
And now that I knew, I was an accessory to the most dangerous secret in Rhode Island.
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