Chapter 4 - The Drawing in the Dark
The house spent the rest of the day in a state of suffocating lockdown.
Noah had been dragged back to his nursery in the east wing, locked inside with two guards stationed at the door. Dominic had retreated to his office, refusing calls, refusing visitors, drinking scotch from a crystal tumbler while the rain pounded against the high arched windows.
Clara knew she was risking her job—and her brother's life—by stepping out of line again. But she couldn't erase the image of the charcoal drawing from her mind.
At seven in the evening, when Mrs. Hargrove went downstairs to review the kitchen accounts, Clara slipped up the service stairs to the east wing.
The two guards outside Noah’s room looked at her with tired, skeptical eyes.
"Mrs. Hargrove said he needs his tray cleaned out," Clara lied smoothly, holding up a small towel and a fresh glass of milk.
The guards grumbled, but one of them unlocked the heavy oak door. "Two minutes, girl. Don't let him throw anything at your face."
Clara stepped inside.
The room was vast, filled with thousands of dollars worth of untouched wooden toys, high-end sensory equipment, and custom furniture. But Noah wasn't in his bed. He was huddled in the dark space between his wardrobe and the wall, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees.
Clara set the glass of milk on the low table and quietly sat down on the rug, three feet away from his hiding spot.
She didn't try to touch him. She pulled a folded piece of paper out of her pocket—the heavy linen paper she had sneaked out of the library that morning.
"I found this under the rug in the library," Clara said quietly.
Noah didn't move, but his small head shifted slightly, one dark eye peering at her from behind his knees.
Clara laid the charcoal drawing on the floor between them.
"Everyone thinks you're throwing tantrums, Noah," Clara whispered, looking at the crude black lines. "They think you're mad at the world. But my brother Tyler... when he couldn't breathe, he used to hit the walls because he felt like the air was hiding from him."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, metallic object she had picked up off the hall floor after Arthur left—a shiny silver key ring with a small, broken brass tab.
"Your father thinks your mother died in a car crash on the highway," Clara continued, her heart hammering against her ribs. "The police said it was an ambush by rival businessmen. But you were in the backseat, weren't you?"
Noah let out a tiny, high-pitched whimper.
Clara pointed to the drawing—the doorway with the three sharp strokes inside it.
"This isn't a doorway, is it?" Clara asked softly. "It's a truck grill. And these three strokes... they're the emblem of the shipping company."
Noah slowly crept out from behind the wardrobe on his hands and knees. His hands were shaking violently. He reached out a dirty, small finger and touched the broken brass tab on Clara’s key ring.
On the brass tab was a stamped crest: Vale Logistics - South Chicago Division.
Noah looked up at Clara, his big, dark eyes brimming with a horror so profound it made her blood run cold.
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He didn't scream. He didn't bite.
He lifted two small fingers to his lips, made a sharp clicking sound with his tongue, and pointed directly at the portrait of Arthur Vale hanging in the grand hallway downstairs.
