Chapter 3: What Mrs. Doyle Saw
The paramedics came in fast, two of them, wheeling a stretcher through the front door that Mrs.
Doyle held open with both hands.
Julian stepped back to let them work.
Claire pressed herself against the wall, one hand over her mouth, watching every move they made over Emma's small body.
Rachel hadn't moved from the center of the room.
Julian walked to her.
Not close enough to touch.
Close enough that she couldn't pretend he wasn't there.
"You're going to tell me everything," he said.
"Right now.
Before they take Emma out of this house."
"Julian, I swear to you—"
"Don't." The word came out flat.
"Don't swear to me.
Not tonight."
One of the paramedics called out.
"She's stable.
Pulse is weak but present.
We need to move her now."
Claire grabbed her coat from the hook by the door.
She looked at Julian once — a look that asked a question he couldn't answer yet — and then she followed Emma out into the night.
The front door closed.
Julian and Rachel stood alone in the foyer.
The grandfather clock ticked.
The unicorn cup sat on the side table where he'd placed it, rim down, touching nothing.
"Sit down," Julian said.
Rachel sat.
He pulled a chair from against the wall and set it directly across from her.
He didn't sit in it.
He stood behind it, both hands resting on the back.
"The message said she wasn't supposed to drink it." He kept his voice even.
"Which means someone planned for the punch to be poured.
Someone planned for it to be in that cup.
And someone planned for it to reach a specific person.
Who?"
Rachel pressed her hands flat against her thighs.
"I need you to understand something before I say anything."
"I need you to answer the question."
"It wasn't supposed to be Emma." Her voice broke on the last word.
"It was never supposed to be Emma."
Julian's grip tightened on the chair back.
"Then who?"
She looked up at him.
Her eyes were red, her mascara tracking down both cheeks.
She looked like a woman who had been carrying something very heavy for a very long time and had just been told she could no longer hold it.
"You," she said.
"It was meant for you."
The clock ticked once.
Twice.
Julian didn't move.
"Someone paid me," Rachel said.
"Three months ago.
I didn't know what it was at first.
They told me it was a sedative.
That it would make you sleep through the night.
That it wouldn't hurt you." She pressed her fingers to her eyes.
"They said it would just give them time."
"Time for what?"
"To access your safe.
The one in your study."
Julian pulled the chair out and sat down slowly.
"Who hired you?"
Rachel opened her mouth.
Then she stopped.
Her eyes moved to the hallway.
Mrs.
Doyle was still standing in the doorway.
She hadn't left.
She was watching Rachel with an expression that was not confusion, not shock, and not sympathy.
It was warning.
"Rachel," Julian said quietly.
"Look at me.
Not at her.
At me."
Rachel looked at him.
Something moved behind her eyes — fear, but a different kind than before.
Not the fear of being caught.
The fear of what came next if she spoke.
"I can't tell you here," she whispered.
"You will tell me here."
May you like
"Julian." Her voice dropped so low he had to lean forward.
"The person who hired me is still in this house."
