Chapter 7: The First Night
Dr.
Anand spent forty minutes with Celeste.
Dominic waited in the corridor.
Claire had taken Oliver to his room — the boy had fallen asleep on the stairs, finally, the rabbit pressed to his chest, and she had carried him up without waking him.
Dominic had watched her do it and said nothing.
There was nothing adequate to say.
When Dr.
Anand came out, she closed the door behind her and stood with her notes held against her chest.
"Physically, she's malnourished but stable," she said.
"No acute injuries.
She's been receiving basic medical care — someone has been managing her nutrition, at minimum." A pause.
"Psychologically, she's showing signs consistent with prolonged isolation.
Hypervigilance.
Difficulty with sustained eye contact.
Some dissociation during our conversation." She looked at Dominic directly.
"She needs inpatient psychiatric support.
Not because she's unstable — she's remarkably coherent — but because what was done to her requires more than a single night's care."
"Can she be moved tonight?"
"She can.
But I'd recommend somewhere she feels safe.
Not a facility she doesn't know, not tonight." Dr.
Anand paused.
"She asked about her son."
Dominic's jaw tightened.
"What did you tell her?"
"That he was downstairs.
That he was safe." She looked at him carefully.
"She asked if he remembered her."
Dominic thought about the drawing in his pocket.
The rabbit.
The two fingers Oliver had held up.
Two months of small, secret deliveries through whatever gap existed between a locked door and a four-year-old's determination.
"He never forgot her," Dominic said.
Dr.
Anand nodded.
"Then that's where I'd start."
He went back into the room.
Celeste was sitting on the edge of the bed.
She had washed her face.
She looked more present than she had an hour ago — still fragile, still careful, but her eyes were clearer.
"The doctor said Oliver is here," she said.
"He's asleep.
Downstairs." Dominic sat in the wooden chair across from her.
"He's been asking about you.
In his way."
"The room next to the kitchen corridor," she said quietly.
"There's a gap under the door.
About an inch.
He used to slide drawings under it.
I'd slide them back with notes." She looked at her hands.
"I didn't know if he understood.
He never knocked.
He never made a sound."
"He understood," Dominic said.
"He's been pointing at this room for fourteen months.
Every nanny who came near the stairs — he drove them out."
Celeste looked up.
"He was protecting me."
"Yes."
She pressed her hand over her mouth.
Her shoulders shook once, twice, then steadied.
"I want to see him," she said.
"In the morning," Dominic said.
"Let him sleep.
He's had a hard night."
"He's had a hard two years."
"Yes," Dominic said.
"He has.
So have you."
She looked at him for a long moment.
The look was complicated — not warm, not cold.
The look of someone trying to determine whether a familiar face still belonged to a person they could trust.
"Did you know?" she asked.
"Any of it?"
"No."
"Your mother said you authorized the arrangement."
"She lied."
Celeste was quiet.
"She's very good at that."
"I know." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"I'm sorry.
I know that doesn't—"
"It doesn't fix anything," she said.
Not harshly.
Just accurately.
"No," he agreed.
"It doesn't."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Outside the window, Chicago was dark and indifferent.
"What happens now?" Celeste asked.
"My attorney is downstairs.
There will be criminal charges.
Against my mother, the housekeeper, the physician who signed the certificate." He paused.
"Against anyone else who had knowledge."
"And the documents?
The Harmon contracts?"
"I'll deal with them.
Properly, this time.
With a lawyer and full disclosure if necessary." He met her eyes.
"I'm not asking you to protect me.
If you want to use them, use them.
What was done to you is not a trade."
Celeste studied him.
"I never wanted to destroy you," she said.
"I just wanted to leave."
"I know," he said.
"I know that now."
Downstairs, a door opened and closed.
Patricia Wen's voice, low and official.
Beatrice's voice, no longer composed, rising once before cutting off.
Celeste heard it.
Her hands tightened in her lap.
"Is she being arrested?"
"Not tonight," Dominic said.
"Tonight she's being formally cautioned and asked to remain on the property.
Tomorrow her attorney will be involved.
The process will take time."
"Will she go to prison?"
Dominic thought about the keypad lock.
The sealed window.
The physician's signature on a death certificate.
Twenty-two months.
"Yes," he said.
"I think she will."
Celeste nodded slowly.
She didn't look satisfied.
She looked tired in a way that went past the body.
"I want to sleep," she said.
"Not in this room."
"I'll have another room prepared."
"And in the morning—"
"Oliver will be there," Dominic said.
"I promise."
May you like
She looked at him once more.
Then she nodded, and the trust in that small movement — cautious, conditional, not yet repaired but not entirely gone — cost him more than anything Beatrice had said all night.
