Chapter 5 - What the Eyes Say
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Marin stood beside the bed with her hands clasped tightly in front of her scrubs, keeping her injured left wrist hidden behind her right palm. She was thirty-one, with dark chestnut hair tied back in a practical braid and earnest, exhausted hazel eyes that refused to meet his gaze.
"Good evening, Mr. Varelli," Marin said, forcing her voice into a steady, polite cadence. "Your mother’s vitals are very stable tonight. Her blood oxygen is at ninety-seven percent, and she finished half of her broth."
Dominic didn't answer right away. He walked first to his mother’s bedside, leaning down to kiss Isabella’s forehead and resting his warm hand over her frail left hand. Immediately, Isabella’s right index finger tapped urgently against the mahogany bedrail.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Enough.
Isabella wasn't looking at Dominic; she was looking at Marin, silently begging the younger woman to tell her son what had happened in this room twenty minutes ago.
Dominic turned slowly toward Marin. He reached down, picked up the cracked cedar letter board from the floor where the brass corner bracket had been dented, and placed it gently on the bedside table.
"How did my mother’s board break, Marin?" Dominic asked softly.
Marin swallowed hard, her throat working as the words of Vivien’s threat echoed clearly in her mind: Blue backpack. Red inhaler. He waits near the side gate.
"It was my fault, sir," Marin lied, staring at the brass buckle on Dominic’s shoe. "My hands were wet after washing Mrs. Varelli’s water pitcher, and I dropped it against the wheel of the oxygen cart. I already ordered an identical replacement from the woodworker in Warren out of my own paycheck."
"And your left wrist?" Dominic asked, taking a single step closer to her. "Did the oxygen cart strike you too?"
"I bumped it on the doorframe this morning," Marin said quickly, stepping back half an inch. "Miss Morrow was very kind when she came up earlier. She asked me to let you know that your mother is looking forward to tomorrow night’s reception."
From the bed, Isabella let out a harsh, raspy breath through her nasal cannula and struck the bedrail once with all the strength she possessed.
Tap.
No.
Dominic looked at Marin’s pale, terrified face and realized the depth of her courage. Even now, trembling in her shoes, she had refused to lie about his mother’s blessing until he cornered her, and she was taking the blame for the broken board solely to keep a predator away from her nine-year-old son.
Dominic reached into his suit pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped up a live video feed from the gated guest cottage down by the estate’s private orchard. He held the screen out in front of Marin.
On the monitor, nine-year-old Eli was sitting at a butcher-block kitchen island next to Mrs. Gable, the estate’s head housekeeper, happily eating a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies while his navy-blue backpack rested safely on the stool beside him. Two armed Varelli guards stood visible through the kitchen window on the porch.
Marin gasped aloud, both hands flying to her mouth as tears instantly spilled over her eyelashes.
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"Eli?" she choked out, grabbing the edge of Dominic’s forearm to steady herself. "How is he here? My sister was supposed to pick him up at five—"
"Your sister is on her way here now in one of my cars," Dominic said gently, placing his free hand over her trembling fingers. "The man Vivien hired to photograph your son outside St. Francis Academy is currently in custody, and Eli is behind twelve-foot stone walls where no one on earth can touch him. Now, Marin—show me your wrist, and tell me everything she has done in this room."
