The eighteenth nanny fled the mansion with blood running down her forehead, screaming that four-year-old Noah Vale was “not right”—and by that afternoon,

I froze, the flashlight beam trembling in my hand as it illuminated the dust motes dancing in the cold air of the nursery.

Slowly, I turned around.

Standing in the shadows of the doorway was Mrs. Hargrove. She was no longer wearing her house manager apron. She wore a dark trench coat, and in her gloved right hand, she held a compact black pistol fitted with a silencer, aimed directly at my chest.

"Mrs. Hargrove," I gasped, keeping my hands visible. "What are you doing?"

"I could ask you the same question, child," Mrs. Hargrove replied, her voice entirely devoid of the polite, formal cadence she used during the day. "Mr. Vale gave you strict orders through me. You were supposed to be a distraction. A quiet maid who kept the boy occupied while the real business continued."

"You put this bug in the room," I said, pointing the flashlight at the baby monitor. "You've been spying on Dominic."

Mrs. Hargrove let out a bitter, quiet chuckle. "Dominic Vale thinks he rules Chicago because he has armed men at every intersection. But he's blind. He was so blinded by grief over his precious wife that he never noticed who was running his household."

"You work for Julian," I realized out loud, pieces of the puzzle snapping together with terrifying speed.

"Julian understands how power works," Mrs. Hargrove said, stepping closer, the gun never wavering. "Dominic became weak after Elena died. He started talking about getting out of the business, going legitimate, protecting the boy. Julian couldn't allow a weak man to destroy thirty years of family empire."

"So you helped him kill Elena?" I whispered, horror rising in my throat.

Mrs. Hargrove’s eyes hardened into ice. "Elena was an accident. The ambush was only supposed to scare Dominic into stepping down. But the foolish woman drove into the crossfire herself. And little Noah... well, little Noah was sitting in the back seat, wasn't he?"

My blood ran cold. "Noah saw you."

"The boy saw Julian standing over the car," Mrs. Hargrove corrected coldly. "He was two years old. We thought he was too young to understand, too traumatized to speak. But lately, he's been drawing things. He's been remembering. And Julian cannot afford for Dominic to figure out who really ordered that hit."

She raised the gun higher, aligning the sight with the center of my forehead.

"You're a sweet girl, Clara," Mrs. Hargrove murmured. "Your brother Tyler needs that heart surgery, doesn't he? It's a shame he'll have to go through it without his sister."

"If I die, Dominic will know," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. "He gave me the keycard himself tonight. He knows I'm up here."

Mrs. Hargrove paused for a fraction of a second, a flicker of doubt crossing her cold face.

That fraction of a second was all I needed.

I slammed my heavy canvas tote bag directly into her armed wrist, knocking the gun sideways.

THWIP!

A silenced shot whistled past my ear, tearing through the lace curtains behind me.

I lunged forward, shoving Mrs. Hargrove with all my weight. She stumbled back into the doorframe, her head cracking against the hard mahogany wood with a sickening thud. The pistol clattered out of her hand, sliding across the polished floorboards.

I didn't stay to fight. I grabbed the micro-recording device from the baby monitor, snatched my bag, and sprinted into the dark hallway as fast as my legs could carry me.