Chapter 4 - The Unseen Patient
By sunrise, the rain had cleared, leaving the estate grounds washed in a gray, misty fog. Ethan was still asleep beside me, his face pale and exhaustion etched deep into his features. I looked at him closely, searching for any sign of a scar, a scratch, or an injury that could account for the blood from two nights ago.
His hands were smooth, save for a thin, fresh pink line running across his left palm. It looked like a minor cut from a knife or a sharp piece of glass. Was that where the blood had come from? But why hide a simple hand cut?
I slipped out of bed, dressed quickly in warm wool pants and a thick sweater, and decided to do what any frightened, desperate woman would do: I began searching for answers outside of Margaret’s influence.
I walked down to the estate’s stables and carriage house, located about two hundred yards behind the main mansion. The old wooden structure smelled of straw, leather, and aging timber. It was mostly used for storage now, but an old groundskeeper named Thomas lived in the apartment above the tack room. Thomas had worked for the Vance family for over forty years; he had seen Ethan grow up and had been present when Ethan's father died.
I climbed the creaking wooden stairs to Thomas’s door and knocked softly.
After a few moments, the door creaked open. Thomas stood there, a frail man in his late sixties with weathered skin, bright blue eyes, and a thick woolen vest. He looked surprised to see me.
"Mrs. Vance?" he said, his voice husky. "What are you doing out here so early? It’s damp enough to catch a chill."
"Please, Thomas, call me Claire," I said, offering a small, earnest smile. "Can I talk to you for a few minutes? Away from the main house?"
Thomas looked past me toward the distant silhouette of the manor. A flicker of caution entered his eyes, but he stepped aside and opened the door wider. "Come in. I was just boiling water for tea."
His small apartment was cozy, filled with wooden furniture, hand-carved horses, and wall-to-wall shelves of old books. He poured two mugs of black tea and handed one to me. We sat opposite each other at a small oak table.
"Thomas," I began, clutching the warm mug with both hands. "I need to ask you about Richard Vance. Ethan's father."
Thomas paused, his tea mug halfway to his lips. He set it down slowly. "Mr. Richard was a complicated man, Claire. A powerful man. Built half this county's real estate empire."
"How did he die?" I asked point-blank. "Official records say it was a heart attack ten years ago. But... is that the truth?"
Thomas leaned back, his brow furrowing deep with wrinkles. "Official records say what the family wants them to say, child. Mr. Richard was sick for a long time before he passed. But it wasn't his heart. It was his mind."
My breath hitched. "His mind?"
"He had violent turns," Thomas said softly, dropping his voice as if the walls might hear. "Spells where he didn't know where he was, or who he was. He’d get terrible headaches, freeze up, and then lose his temper completely. Margaret kept him hidden away in the west wing for the last two years of his life. Brought in private doctors, specialized nurses. Nobody was allowed up there. Not even young Ethan."
"And the night he died?" I pressed.
Thomas looked down at his calloused hands. "There was a terrible shouting match in the house. I was out here in the barn. I heard glass breaking, screaming. Then silence. An hour later, the private ambulance came. No police, no coroner. Just a private transport. Margaret told everyone it was a sudden heart attack. But I cleaned the west wing the next morning, Claire. There was blood on the floorboards in the anteroom. A lot of it."
My blood ran cold. "Did Ethan see it?"
"Ethan was only fifteen," Thomas said grimly. "He was terrified of his father. But that night... Ethan was in that room when Richard died. Margaret locked the wing up right after. Never let anyone up there again."
"Until now," I murmured.
I looked Thomas in the eye. "Thomas, something happened on my wedding night. Ethan was... he wasn't himself. There was blood on our sheets, and Margaret slept in our bed while forcing me out. She's dosing Ethan with something. I saw them in the west wing last night."
Thomas’s face went pale. He gripped the edge of the table. "Dear God... she's doing it again."
"Doing what again?"
"The medicine," Thomas whispered, horror creeping into his voice. "When Mr. Richard was sick, Margaret didn't want him going to a real hospital. If a prominent businessman was declared insane, his fortune would have been placed in a court-ordered trust, and she would have lost control of the estate. So she hired a shady local physician, Dr. Harrison, to formulate heavy sedatives and experimental mood stabilizers. She kept Richard drugged, weak, and completely dependent on her until the day he died!"
The pieces began falling together in a terrifying picture. Margaret didn't just want control; she was an absolute tyrant who treated the men in her life like possessions.
"Is Dr. Harrison still around?" I asked frantically.
"He died five years ago," Thomas replied. "But his clinic in town was taken over by his nephew, Dr. Julian Harrison. He still comes to the estate once a month to deliver 'supplements' for Ethan."
"Ethan isn't sick," I stated firmly, standing up from the table. "He’s being poisoned. She’s keeping him sick so he can never leave her, so he can never run this estate without her consent!"
"Be careful, Claire," Thomas warned, grabbing my forearm as I turned to leave. "If Margaret realizes you know... she won't just push you out of the bedroom. She’ll make sure you disappear entirely, just like the doctors and nurses who tried to help Richard."
I looked at the old man, feeling a surge of stubborn resolve replacing my fear. "I'm not leaving Ethan to rot in that house, Thomas. I'm going to find out what happened on my wedding night, and I'm going to break her hold over him."
I rushed out of the carriage house and made my way back toward the mansion. But as I rounded the corner of the formal rose garden, I stopped dead in my tracks.
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Standing by the grand front porch was a sleek white van with medical markings on the side. A young man in a gray suit holding a leather doctor’s bag was speaking to Margaret.
Dr. Julian Harrison had arrived.
