Mrs. Harper dropped the towels.

They landed on the polished marble floor, scattering across the hallway.

Nobody moved.

I looked at her.

“Mrs. Harper?”

She quickly bent down to collect them.

“I’m sorry, Miss Morgan. My hands slipped.”

But her hands weren’t simply trembling.

They were shaking.

I glanced toward the ventilation grate again.

“Have you noticed this smell before?”

She avoided my eyes.

“It’s probably the cleaning products.”

“Which cleaning products?”

“We use several brands.”

“Where are they stored?”

“Downstairs.”

I nodded slowly.

Then I looked at Vincent.

“I’d like to see the utility room.”

Dr. Blake’s voice suddenly came from behind us.

“Absolutely not.”

We turned.

He was standing at the top of the staircase, holding his medical bag.

“I’ve been informed that you’ve already begun making ridiculous suggestions about the ventilation system.”

Vincent frowned.

“Who informed you?”

Dr. Blake ignored him.

“Miss Morgan, these children have complicated medical histories. Their condition cannot be explained by a smell in the hallway.”

“I haven’t claimed it can.”

“Then perhaps you should stop frightening the household.”

I looked at him.

“I’m not frightened. I’m curious.”

He gave a dismissive laugh.

“Curiosity without medical training is dangerous.”

Vincent stepped between us.

“Enough, Harrison.”

The doctor turned toward him.

“Vincent, I’ve spent eleven months treating your sons. I’ve examined every possible explanation. You cannot seriously allow a nanny to interfere with their medical care.”

“I’m allowing her to do her job.”

“And what exactly is that?”

Vincent’s expression hardened.

“Keeping my children alive and comfortable while you figure out why they’re getting worse.”

Dr. Blake went silent.

For the first time, I noticed something strange.

He wasn’t merely offended.

He seemed nervous.

I met Lucas and Leo that afternoon.

They were sitting on the carpet in Lucas’s bedroom, surrounded by expensive toys they barely touched.

Lucas was thinner than his pH๏τographs suggested.

Leo had dark circles beneath his eyes.

Both boys looked exhausted.

“Hello,” I said gently. “I’m Claire.”

Lucas looked at his brother.

“Are you our new nanny?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Do you know how to play chess?”

“A little.”

“Dad says nobody can beat him.”

I smiled.

“Then perhaps we should find out whether your father is telling the truth.”

Leo laughed.

It was a small laugh, but it changed his entire face.

I sat on the carpet with them.

For twenty minutes, we played chess.

Then I noticed something.

Lucas kept rubbing his nose.

Leo scratched his arms.

“Does anything hurt?” I asked.

“My head,” Lucas whispered.

“Mine too,” Leo added.

“How long has that been happening?”

“Sometimes in the morning,” Lucas said.

“Does it get better during the day?”

They looked at each other.

Leo nodded.

“Sometimes when we go outside.”

That caught my attention.

“Outside where?”

“The garden.”

Lucas pointed toward the window.

“We feel better when Dad takes us to the greenhouse.”

I glanced at the adjoining wall.

“Do you ever feel worse when you’re inside your bedrooms?”

Both boys nodded.

“Especially at night,” Leo whispered.

My stomach тιԍнтened.

“Does anyone know?”

“Dr. Blake says it’s because we’re growing.”

I smiled gently.

“Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

I didn’t want to frighten them.

But I was beginning to suspect that their symptoms might have something to do with their environment.

And I wanted answers before another morning pᴀssed.

At dinner, I watched the boys carefully.

They ate very little.

Vincent sat at the head of the table, barely touching his food.

“Did they play today?” he asked.

“A little chess.”

“That’s good.”

Lucas pushed his vegetables around his plate.

“Dad?”

“Yes, buddy?”

“Can we sleep in the greenhouse tonight?”

Vincent looked up.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Because my head doesn’t hurt there.”

Vincent’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth.

I watched him.

“Have they said that before?”

He slowly put down his fork.

“No.”

Mrs. Harper appeared with a pitcher of water.

She looked toward the boys.

Then toward Vincent.

“Actually, sir, they’ve mentioned it several times.”

Vincent turned.

“Why wasn’t I told?”

Mrs. Harper lowered her eyes.

“I thought Dr. Blake knew.”

Vincent’s expression darkened.

“Harrison never mentioned this.”

I spoke carefully.

“Perhaps we should document when their symptoms improve and worsen. But I’d also recommend having an independent environmental specialist inspect the house as soon as possible.”

Vincent nodded.

“Call whoever you need.”

Then he looked at Mrs. Harper.

“And nobody changes anything in those bedrooms until the inspection is complete.”

She nodded.

But her face had gone pale again.

At 9:15 that evening, I was walking past the boys’ bedrooms when I heard a faint clicking sound.

Click.

Click.

Click.

It came from behind the ventilation grate.

I stopped.

The air smelled stronger than it had that afternoon.

I moved closer.

There was a tiny green indicator light inside the metal housing.

I stepped back.

Then I heard footsteps.

“Miss Morgan?”

I turned.

Mrs. Harper stood at the end of the hallway.

“What are you doing here?”

“Checking on the boys.”

“They’re asleep.”

“I heard something.”

Her eyes moved toward the vent.

Then she whispered:

“You need to leave that alone.”

I stared at her.

“Why?”

She looked over her shoulder.

Then she stepped closer.

“Because someone comes here every night after the children are asleep.”

My heart began beating faster.

“Who?”

She swallowed.

“Dr. Blake.”

I found Vincent in his office.

He was reviewing financial documents when I entered.

“Claire?”

“I need to tell you something.”

He immediately put down his pen.

“What happened?”

“Mrs. Harper says Dr. Blake visits the ventilation system every night.”

Vincent stood.

“What?”

“She says he comes after the boys are asleep.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know. But I think you need to ask her yourself.”

Vincent pressed a ʙuттon on his desk.

“Bring Mrs. Harper to my office.”

Within minutes, the house manager arrived.

She looked frightened.

Vincent stood behind his desk.

“Tell me what you told Claire.”

Mrs. Harper twisted her hands.

“Sir, I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“Then tell me the truth.”

She took a shaky breath.

“Dr. Blake instructed the maintenance staff to give him access to the ventilation controls. He said it was part of the boys’ treatment.”

Vincent’s expression changed.

“What treatment?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Has he ever asked you to keep it secret?”

Mrs. Harper began crying.

“Yes.”

Vincent slowly sat down.

“How long?”

“Almost a year.”

He stared at her.

“Eleven months?”

She nodded.

I watched Vincent’s hands тιԍнтen around the edge of his desk.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Mrs. Harper looked down.

“Because he said the children would get worse if anyone interfered.”

Vincent stood so quickly his chair rolled backward.

“Get my security chief. Now.”

Ten minutes later, Marco, Vincent’s head of security, entered the office.

“Boss?”

“Lock down the property. Nobody enters the utility room without my authorization.”

Marco nodded.

Vincent continued.

“I want an independent environmental inspection. Tonight.”

“Understood.”

“And find out exactly what Harrison Blake has been doing in this house.”

Marco glanced at me.

“Is there a problem?”

Vincent looked toward the ceiling.

“I hope not.”

Then he turned to Mrs. Harper.

“Take us to the ventilation control room.”

The utility room was located beneath the east wing.

It was larger than I expected, filled with electrical panels, pipes, filters, and an elaborate computerized ventilation system.

Marco unlocked the main control cabinet.

Inside were several maintenance records.

Vincent examined them.

“What am I looking at?”

I stepped closer.

“Filter replacement dates.”

He pointed to the latest entry.

“September 12.”

Then another.

“October 12.”

I checked the dates.

The filters had supposedly been replaced every month.

But the service company listed on the paperwork had never visited the property according to the household access log.

“Who signed these?”

Vincent examined the initials.

“H.B.”

“Harrison Blake?” I asked.

He nodded.

Marco opened another cabinet.

Inside was a small metal box containing several sealed containers and a digital control module.

One container had a handwritten label.

EAST WING — NIGHT CYCLE.

Vincent stared at it.

“What the hell is this?”

Nobody answered.

Then Marco found something else.

A small notebook.

He opened it.

The first page contained a list of dates.

The second contained the boys’ names.

Lucas.

Leo.

Beside each name were short handwritten notes.

Morning fatigue.

Headaches.

Reduced appeтιтe.

Improvement after outdoor exposure.

I felt my stomach drop.

This wasn’t ordinary maintenance paperwork.

Someone had been documenting the boys’ symptoms alongside the operation of the ventilation system.

Vincent took the notebook.

His face had gone completely white.

“Call Harrison.”

Marco reached for his phone.

But before he could dial, the utility room door opened.

Dr. Blake stood there.

His expression was calm.

Too calm.

“What are you doing down here?”

Vincent slowly turned.

“I was hoping you could answer that.”

Dr. Blake glanced at the open cabinet.

Then at the notebook in Vincent’s hand.

For the first time since I had met him, he looked genuinely unsettled.

“Vincent, you need to put that down.”

Vincent’s voice dropped.

“Why are my children’s names written in your private maintenance records?”

“It’s part of their treatment.”

“What treatment?”

“Clinical monitoring.”

“Through the ventilation system?”

Dr. Blake adjusted his glᴀsses.

“You’re misunderstanding what you’re seeing.”

Vincent stepped closer.

“Then explain it.”

The doctor looked toward Marco.

“Perhaps we should discuss this privately.”

“No,” Vincent replied. “We’re discussing it here.”

I moved toward the cabinet.

There was something else tucked behind the control module.

A folded sheet of paper.

I pulled it out.

It contained a list of chemical products, maintenance instructions, and a series of dates.

I couldn’t identify everything on the page.

But one line caught my attention.

NIGHT DISTRIBUTION — EAST WING — 10:30 P.M.

I looked at the clock.

10:26 p.m.

My blood ran cold.

“Vincent.”

He turned.

“Don’t let anyone activate this system.”

Dr. Blake suddenly moved toward the control panel.

Marco caught his arm.

“Don’t touch it!”

The doctor struggled.

“Get your hands off me!”

Vincent stared at him.

“What’s in that system, Harrison?”

The doctor’s face twisted.

“You have no idea what you’ve done.”

Vincent’s voice became dangerously quiet.

“Then tell me.”

Dr. Blake looked directly at him.

And finally, he spoke.

“Your sons weren’t getting weaker because of some mysterious illness.”

The room went silent.

He swallowed.

“Someone has been exposing them to something inside this house.”

Vincent took a step forward.

“Who?”

Dr. Blake looked at me.

Then at Mrs. Harper.

Then back at Vincent.

“I was following instructions.”

“Whose instructions?”

The doctor said nothing.

Vincent grabbed the front of his coat.

“WHO?”

Dr. Blake closed his eyes.

Then he whispered a name.

“Isabella.”

Vincent froze.

“My wife is ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.”

“I know.”

“Then explain yourself.”

Dr. Blake’s face turned pale.

“Because the person who authorized the original system changes wasn’t your wife.”

He looked toward the staircase.

“It was someone who has been living in this mansion since before your sons were born.”

A sudden crash echoed from upstairs.

Then a child’s scream.

“DAD!”

Vincent released the doctor and ran.

I followed him.

When we reached the boys’ bedrooms, Lucas was standing in the doorway, coughing and struggling to breathe normally.

Leo was beside him, frightened and pale.

The ventilation grate was making a low humming sound.

Vincent immediately pulled both boys away from the hallway.

“Marco! Get the emergency medical team here!”

I knelt beside Lucas.

“Sweetheart, look at me. We’re going to get you help.”

He grabbed my hand.

“Miss Claire…”

“Yes?”

His eyes filled with tears.

“Please don’t let them make us sleep here again.”

I looked at Vincent.

His expression was shattered.

He held both sons against his chest.

Then he looked toward the utility room.

“Find out who did this.”

Marco nodded.

“Yes, boss.”

But I was still thinking about something Dr. Blake had said.

The person responsible had been living in the mansion since before the boys were born.

Someone with access.

Someone Vincent trusted.

And someone who knew exactly how to make the symptoms appear and disappear.

As the paramedics arrived, Mrs. Harper approached me.

She was holding an old pH๏τograph.

“Miss Morgan,” she whispered. “I think you need to see this.”

I took it.

The pH๏τograph showed Isabella Moretti standing in front of the mansion.

Beside her was a woman holding newborn Lucas and Leo.

I recognized the woman immediately.

Mrs. Harper.

But what made my blood turn cold was the date written on the back.

Three months after Isabella’s death.

And beneath it, in handwriting I recognized from the maintenance records, were six words:

THE BOYS MUST NEVER RECOVER.

I looked up at Mrs. Harper.

She began crying.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Why?” I asked.

She looked toward the stairs.

“Because the person who ordered it is still upstairs.”

END OF PART 2 — PART 3: THE PERSON WHO WANTED THE TWINS SICK.