Chapter 21
Brooklyn Sloane
The front door of Porter’s cottage was unlocked.
Brook slowly pushed it open and stepped inside, Theo close behind her.
The living room was exactly as Sylvie had described it from her interview two days ago.
The bottle of whiskey beside the recliner was still there, the glass beside it empty.
The second bottle on the kitchen counter remained unopened.
The air inside was stale, though, as if the cottage itself had already begun to understand that its occupant wasn’t coming back.
A pair of reading glasses sat folded on the small table beside the recliner, next to a paperback that had been left facedown with the spine cracked to hold the page.
Porter had expected to come home, and Brook stood in silence out of respect.
“It’s odd,” Theo eventually said as he closed the door behind them. “You’d think Porter would have mentioned a hidden lab.”
“It wasn’t his job to question things, was it?
” Brook moved through the living room leisurely, her gaze sweeping the floorboards, the baseboards, the seams where the walls met the floor.
The morning light came through the window facing the main house, casting a bright rectangle across the braided rug and the recliner.
The scent of old wood and the faint trace of tobacco still clung to the upholstery.
“I noticed a section in the back of the greenhouse that could have been a lab at some point. Multiple worktables, shelving, and additional storage. They all hold planters and ceramic pots now, but the layout suggests the space was originally designed for something else.”
“So, the lab used to be in the greenhouse.”
"I think so. But Nestor moved it for some reason.
" Brook crouched near the edge of the braided rug and lifted the corner, checking the floorboards underneath.
Solid wood, no seams, no hinges. She let the rug fall back into place.
"And the only reason to move a lab is if you're working on something you don't want others to see.
Think about it. Ward Seldon and Ray Freeling were making deliveries to the estate at least twice a week.
They had direct access to the greenhouse.
If Nestor was treating those women in the greenhouse, anyone walking in with a delivery would have seen them.
A cot, medical supplies, a patient too sick to move.
He couldn't risk that. So, he moved his entire operation out of necessity.
Somewhere no one would stumble across it. "
Theo moved to the opposite side of the room and began checking the walls, pressing against the panels, listening for hollow sounds. His knuckles rapped against the plaster in a slow, systematic pattern, working from one corner toward the window.
“Does that mean you believe Nestor murdered those women?”
"I'm not ready to change the profiles just yet," Brook murmured as she replaced the rug and moved toward the kitchen.
She opened the pantry door and examined the back wall, running her fingertips along the edges of the shelving.
The surface was old but uniform, with no gaps or irregularities.
The pantry smelled of cardboard and dust, and the shelves held more basics than variety.
Brook suspected Porter had taken most of his meals in the main house, eating whatever he'd bought for Gwenyth rather than keeping a separate kitchen for himself.
"Two victims have been confirmed to have had cancer.
Two is still a coincidence. Three is a pattern. "
She shook her head at the irony of her own words.
Theo shot her a questioning look.
“I was thinking earlier that I don’t necessarily believe in coincidences,” Brook said as she closed the pantry and moved to the utility closet.
“Porter’s accident is looking more and more like just that.
An accident. And now, here I am using the word coincidence to describe two cancer victims being buried in the same greenhouse. ”
“Context matters,” Theo said from the hallway, where he was running his hand along the doorframe of the bedroom. “Porter’s brake lines were worn. That’s mechanical failure, not intent. Two women with cancer ending up in the same greenhouse thirty years ago is something else entirely.”
“Which is why I need a third confirmation before I shift the profile.”
They continued to search in a methodical silence, working their way through the cottage room by room.
The bedroom was small, with a single window facing the tree line and a bed neatly made in a way that reminded Brook of Graham.
A flannel shirt hung over the back of a chair near the closet, as though Porter had draped it there one evening and never gotten around to putting it away.
The bathroom held nothing but the usual.
The medicine cabinet contained aspirin, antacids, and a bottle of blood pressure medication with Porter’s name on the label.
A closet near the back door contained coats, boots, and cleaning supplies arranged with the kind of order that suggested Porter had known where every item was without having to look.
Every wall was solid.
Every floorboard was flush.
There was no latch, no hatch, no panel that gave way under pressure.
Theo stood in the center of the living room and turned in a slow circle, taking in the full space one more time. His gaze moved from the ceiling to the floor, across each wall, measuring proportions the way he’d been trained to assess a room. She’d already done the same.
“There are no additions,” Theo stated matter-of-factly as he rested his hands on his hips.
“The walls are as they appear. Whatever construction Nestor had done to this cottage, it wasn’t to add a hidden room.
It could have been plumbing, electrical, or structural repair.
Any number of things that wouldn’t leave a visible trace. ”
Brook leaned against the kitchen counter.
The linoleum beneath her feet showed decades of the same path walked between the same points.
Cal had mentioned Nestor renovated the kitchen in the main house and the guest cottage.
If the cottage didn’t hold the lab, and the greenhouse didn’t hold the lab, that brought her back to the main house.
Fourteen rooms, not including the bathrooms.
Thick stone walls on the ground floor, interior walls on the second, plus a split staircase with an elaborate library tucked behind it, along with a large kitchen and pantry.
“Do you think there could be a hidden room somewhere in the mansion?”
“Absolutely.” Theo crossed his arms and leaned against the back of the couch.
“That house is massive. A building that size, with those thick walls, could easily conceal an additional space. You wouldn’t even notice the square footage was off unless you measured every room against the exterior footprint. ”
“Then that’s what we do next. We measure.”
Brook opened her mouth to continue, but a sharp kick beneath her lungs stole the words. She winced and pressed her hand to the spot where the baby’s foot had connected with a rib.
“You alright?”
“The baby is moving, that’s all.” Brook gently rubbed the spot, waiting for the next kick. “Apparently, my rib cage is now a personal gymnasium.”
The concern on Theo’s face softened into something warmer.
His expression shifted, and his single brown eye tracked the movement of her hand across her stomach.
It was as if he wanted to experience it for himself but was too respectful to ask.
Brook recognized the expression. She’d seen it on Graham’s face a hundred times, and on Arden’s once or twice, though the older man had turned away before she could call him on it.
She motioned for Theo to come closer.
“Give me your hand.”
He hesitated for only a moment before crossing the room.
Brook took his hand and placed it over the spot where the baby’s feet were positioned.
They stood there in silence for a few seconds, Theo’s palm warm and steady through her blouse against the curve of her stomach.
The baby finally shifted and delivered another kick, this one strong enough that his palm lifted slightly from the pressure.
His laugh was sudden and genuine, the kind that came from somewhere deeper than amusement. It filled the small cottage the way that she assumed Porter would have enjoyed.
“That’s a strong kid,” Theo said, still grinning as he stepped back.
“That’s Graham’s genetics for you,” Brook corrected, though the warmth in her voice undercut the deflection.
Her smile faded slowly as the weight of everything she’d been carrying settled back into place.
Not all at once, but in stages, the way it always did when a tender moment reminded her of what was waiting on the other side of it.
Theo must have sensed the shift, because he joined her, leaning back against the counter.
The cottage was quiet around them, the kind of tranquility that belonged to a space where one person had lived alone for a very long time, and the absence of that person made the silence feel different from emptiness.
It was as if something had gone missing…and it had.
“Jacob’s preferred victims are women who believe their lives are perfect,” Theo murmured in reassurance. “Not infants.”
Brook needed some distance, so she walked over to the kitchen table and pulled out one of the mismatched chairs. She lowered herself into it carefully, grateful for the support beneath her. She rested her hands on her stomach with her fingers laced together.
“Jacob will come for me, pregnant or not. I’m his endgame.” She stared at her hands for a moment before continuing. “That’s all that matters to him right now. Not the baby, not Graham, not the team. Me. Everything else is just scenery to him.”
She lowered her voice and placed a protective hand over her stomach. She and Theo had indulged in long conversations before. Maybe subconsciously, it was the reason she’d chosen him to accompany her on the walk across the property.
“What frightens me most isn’t Jacob.”
Theo studied her, but he didn’t push.
“It’s genetics.” Brook was angry that the word came out smaller than she’d intended, as though saying it at full volume would give it power. “What if the baby…”
She couldn’t finish.
“Evil isn’t inherited, Brook.”
“You don’t know that.” She met his gaze, not bothering to hide her vulnerability.
“I’ve studied it, Theo. The research on genetic predisposition to antisocial behavior, the twin studies, the adoption studies.
The science points to one’s environment playing a significant role, and I believe that.
But the science also says there’s a hereditary component that we don’t fully understand, and I can’t pretend that doesn’t terrify me. ”
Theo parted his lips, but she didn’t want to be placated. There was nothing he could say to change the facts of those studies.
“Graham has been leaving books around the house. Infant development, childhood attachment, the effects of parental trauma. He’s flagged pages with little yellow tabs.
” A faint, humorless smile crossed her lips.
“But I don’t think he’s even considered the possibility that our child might take after… ”
She couldn’t bring herself to say the word uncle.
She couldn’t attach that title to Jacob in the context of the life growing inside her.
The word itself became instantly contaminated, as though speaking it aloud would create a connection between Jacob and this child that hadn’t even taken his or her first breath, but the fear of it was enough to keep her up at night.
Theo slowly moved from the counter and lowered himself in front of her chair, resting on one knee so that they were at eye level. His single brown eye held hers with a steadiness that had anchored her through worse moments than this one.
“Family isn’t always about blood.”
“Nature versus nurture.” Brook couldn’t contain a wry laugh.
“And I’ve already come to a conclusion, Theo.
Jacob was born evil. Black, twisted, and rotten.
Whatever it is, whatever combination of wiring produced what he became, it was there from the beginning.
And if that’s true, then the same combination of genetics that produced him also produced me. And now…”
She pressed her palm more firmly against her stomach.
“Between Uncle Bit,” Theo said, and the shift in his tone was deliberate, pulling her back from the edge she was approaching, “Uncle Arden, Aunt Sylvie, and Uncle Theo…”
He pressed a hand to his own chest and held it there, his voice carrying a conviction that wasn’t performed. Her own chest tightened to the point of pain.
“This child will only know love and support. That’s not a platitude, Brook. That’s a promise. From every single one of us.”
She hated getting emotional. She loathed the way her pregnancy had stripped away the insulation she’d spent decades building around the parts of herself that were soft enough to bruise.
She had faced serial killers, testified before congressional committees, and stared down her own brother without flinching.
But her best friend kneeling in a dead groundskeeper’s cottage and promising to be an uncle to her unborn child was apparently where her composure drew the line.
The tears came anyway, rising without permission, blurring the edges of Theo’s face until she blinked them back into submission. She managed to nod, because her voice wasn’t ready to cooperate. When it finally returned, she used it to deflect, because that was her wiring.
“I hate being this hormonal.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I bought some gourmet decaf coffee on my way back yesterday. The lady at the shop swore she couldn’t tell the difference.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Brook said as he reached down and helped her to her feet. She stood there, unable to just let the conversation end. “Theo, I—”
“I know.” Theo had spoken those two words the way he said most things that mattered.
Simply, without embellishment, and with the quiet certainty of a man who didn’t need her to finish the sentence to understand what it contained.
She’d been blessed with his friendship, and she would make sure her child understood just how fortunate he or she was to have those chosen family members by her side.
“We have a mansion to measure and a hidden room to find. Let’s get that decaf coffee for you first, shall we? ”