Chapter 4: What Margaret Knew
I didn't go back upstairs.
I let the transport team take Noah to the helicopter, told Frank to keep two men on Margaret and one on every exit, and then I stood in the entrance hall of my own house and made myself think clearly for the first time since the monitor went flat.
Margaret Collins had worked for me for four years.
She had references from two senators and a federal judge.
She had a key to every room in this house, including the nursery.
She had been hired specifically to care for Noah during the night hours — the hours when I was working, when the house was quiet, when no one was watching.
She had been the last person alone with Noah before he crashed.
I found her in the kitchen.
She was sitting at the long prep table with both hands wrapped around a mug of tea she hadn't touched.
Two of Frank's men stood near the door.
She looked up when I walked in, and for a fraction of a second — just a fraction — something moved behind her eyes that wasn't grief.
It was calculation.
Then it was gone, replaced by the red-rimmed, devastated expression of a woman who had spent the last hour crying.
"Mr.
Carter." Her voice broke on cue.
"How is he?
Please tell me he's going to be all right."
I pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.
I didn't answer her question.
"Tell me about eleven forty-three," I said.
She blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"The thermostat in the nursery.
It was changed at eleven forty-three.
You were the only staff member on that floor."
Margaret set the mug down carefully.
"I don't know what you mean.
I didn't touch the thermostat."
"Then who did?"
"I — I don't know.
Maybe it malfunctioned.
These old houses—"
"The thermostat is digital.
It logs every manual adjustment with a timestamp." I watched her face.
"Eleven forty-three, Margaret."
Her hands went still around the mug.
"I want to call my sister.
I'm very upset and I'd like to—"
"Why did you step back into the hallway when Noah's pulse came back?"
The question landed differently than the first one.
Her chin lifted slightly.
A small, involuntary movement.
"I was frightened," she said.
"I was overwhelmed.
I've never seen anything like—"
"You didn't look frightened.
You looked like someone who had just watched a plan fail."
"That's a terrible thing to say to me." Her voice hardened at the edges, just enough.
"I have given four years of my life to this family.
I love that baby.
How dare you sit there and—"
"Emily Parker," I said.
Margaret stopped.
"She noticed the thermostat.
She noticed the blanket position.
She noticed the foam at his mouth and the temperature of the room." I leaned forward slightly.
"She's twenty-three years old and she's been cleaning floors in this house for eight months.
She's never been alone with Noah.
She's never been responsible for his care." I paused.
"But she knew exactly what was wrong with him.
How do you think that is?"
Margaret said nothing.
"Emily told me something in the car on the way to the hospital," I said.
That was a lie.
Emily had said almost nothing in the car.
But Margaret didn't know that.
"She said she'd seen you adjust the thermostat before.
That you always said Noah slept better when the room was warm."
Margaret's jaw tightened.
"Children do sleep better when—"
"He's six months old.
He can't regulate his own body temperature." I stood up slowly.
"A night nanny with four years of experience knows that."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"I didn't do anything to that baby," Margaret said.
Her voice had dropped all the way down now — no more tears, no more breaking syllables.
Just flat and cold and careful.
"And you can't prove otherwise."
She picked up her mug.
Her hand was steady.
"Get a lawyer, Margaret," I said.
"Tonight."
I walked out of the kitchen.
Frank was waiting in the hallway.
"She didn't deny the thermostat," I told him.
"I know.
I heard."
"Pull every camera in this house.
Every log.
Every entry record from the last two weeks." I picked up my jacket from the hall chair.
"And find out who Margaret Collins has been talking to."
Frank's expression didn't change.
But his hand moved to his phone before I finished the sentence.
It was only when I was in the car, halfway to Mass General, that I realized I hadn't asked myself the most important question yet.
Margaret had worked for me for four years.
She had no obvious motive.
She had no history of instability.
May you like
She had no grievance I knew of.
Which meant either I had missed something — or someone else had put her up to it.
