Chapter 3 - THE PRISON OF SILENCE
Back at the Caldwell estate, the silence had returned, thicker and more oppressive than ever before.
In the grand dining room, Ethan sat at the head of a twenty-foot mahogany table. A plate of untouched roasted duck sat before him. Across the room, Noah sat in his high-backed motorized wheelchair, pushing a pea around his plate with his fork.
His eyes were red and swollen from hours of crying. He hadn't spoken a single word since Claire left.
"Noah, please eat something," Ethan said gently, his voice weary. "The chef made your favorite."
Noah didn't look up. "Claire made better eggs."
Ethan felt a sharp pang in his chest. He set his fork down. "Noah, Miss Bennett lied to us. She was doing dangerous things with you. She isn't a doctor. She didn't understand your condition."
"She didn't lie!" Noah suddenly yelled, his little voice echoing off the paneled walls. He looked up at his father, tears spilling over his cheeks. "She helped me stand! I stood up, Dad! I wasn't hurting! I was happy!"
"Noah—"
"You just want me to stay in this chair!" the boy sobbed, his small fists slamming against the armrests of his wheelchair. "You hate it when I move because I look like Mom!"
Ethan froze as if he had been turned to stone. The air was sucked out of his lungs.
Because I look like Mom.
Ethan’s wife, Sarah, had died in a tragic car accident when Noah was just eleven months old. Ethan had been driving. He had survived with minor bruises; Sarah had died instantly. For seven years, the overwhelming guilt of that night had devoured Ethan from the inside out. When Dr. Vance told him months later that Noah had a rare, incurable condition that required constant care and protection, Ethan had channeled all his grief and guilt into one obsessive goal: keeping Noah safe from the world, protecting him from any further pain.
Was Noah right? Had he subconsciously kept his son hidden away because looking at him, seeing him struggle, was a constant, unbearable reminder of what he had lost?
Before Ethan could answer, Mrs. Hargrove walked smoothly into the dining room carrying a small silver tray. On it sat a small glass of water and a small paper cup containing a thick, blue liquid.
"Time for your evening supplement, Noah," Mrs. Hargrove said with a maternal smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Noah pulled his face away. "I don't want it. It makes my legs feel like sleep."
"It’s your medicine, darling," Mrs. Hargrove insisted, stepping closer and reaching for his chin. "Dr. Vance said you must take it every night to keep your nerves quiet."
"Leave him alone, Margaret," Ethan said quietly, his voice hollow.
Mrs. Hargrove paused, turning her head slightly. "Mr. Caldwell, Dr. Vance was very clear. After the... excitement caused by that nanny today, his nervous system needs to be stabilized."
Ethan stared at the blue liquid. For the first time in seven years, a strange, prickling doubt brushed against his mind.
It makes my legs feel like sleep.
"What exactly is in that compound, Margaret?" Ethan asked, standing up from his chair.
Mrs. Hargrove’s expression didn't change, but her posture stiffened imperceptibly. "It is a proprietary neuro-nutrient mixture, Mr. Caldwell. Formulated specifically in Zurich for Noah’s specific condition. You have the invoices in your office files."
"I have the invoices," Ethan said, walking slowly toward her. "I don't have the chemical breakdown. I’ve asked Dr. Vance for it three times this year, and he always says it’s protected by international patent laws."
"Because it is," Mrs. Hargrove replied smoothly. "Dr. Vance has saved Noah’s life for seven years, Ethan. Are you going to let the crazy ramblings of an fired nanny make you doubt the man who kept your son alive?"
Ethan looked down at his son. Noah was watching him with wide, hopeful, frightened eyes.
Ethan reached out and took the small silver tray from Mrs. Hargrove’s hand.
"Noah isn't taking it tonight," Ethan declared.
Mrs. Hargrove’s eyes flashed with a sudden, icy anger. "Ethan, that is a severe violation of medical protocol—"
"I am his father!" Ethan snapped, his voice booming through the room. "I say he isn't taking it tonight! Set it on the counter. Noah, come on. I’m taking you up to bed myself."
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As Ethan pushed Noah’s wheelchair toward the elevator, he didn't see Mrs. Hargrove reach into her pocket, pull out her phone, and quickly send a three-word text message:
He’s asking questions.
