The eighteenth nanny left Blackwood House with blood running from a cut above her eyebrow.

She didn’t stop for her suitcase. She didn’t ask for her final paycheck. She ran. Her shoes struck the marble foyer so hard that every servant in the mansion heard them.

“Open the gate!” she screamed.

A security guard stepped forward. “Ms. Collins—”

“Don’t touch me!” She shoved past him, ripped open the enormous iron-and-glass front door, and disappeared into the rain.

Four-year-old Oliver Blackwood stood at the top of the staircase holding half of a broken wooden train. His chest rose and fell beneath his white shirt. His curls were damp with sweat. Everyone stared at him as if he were something dangerous.

At the bottom of the staircase stood his father. Damian Blackwood was thirty-eight years old, six-foot-two, and worth more money than most people could imagine spending in ten lifetimes. Business magazines called him brilliant. Competitors called him merciless. His employees called him Mr. Blackwood even when he told them not to.

But at that moment, none of those things mattered. He was simply a father staring at a child he no longer understood.

“Oliver.”

The little boy backed away. “Come downstairs.”

“No.”

“You hurt Ms. Collins.”

“She was bad.”

“That does not give you permission to throw things.”

“She was BAD!” Oliver hurled the remaining piece of train. It struck the wall beside Damian.

Two security men instinctively moved. Oliver screamed. Not an angry scream. A terrified one.

“DON’T!” He dropped to the floor and covered his head with both arms.

The entire foyer froze. Damian’s expression changed. Just for a second.

Then an older woman appeared from the corridor. Evelyn Harrow had managed Blackwood House since before Oliver was born. Tall, silver-haired, perfectly dressed, she carried herself with the authority of someone who knew every secret behind every locked door.

She sighed. “Another episode.”

Damian looked at her. “What happened?”

“The usual. Ms. Collins attempted to enforce his afternoon schedule. Oliver attacked her.”

“I didn’t!” Oliver’s voice cracked.

Evelyn looked up at him. “Oliver.”

One word. Nothing threatening about it. Yet the child went silent. His face drained of color.

Near the dining-room entrance stood Clara Bennett. Twenty-six years old. Housemaid. Quiet enough that most guests forgot her name five minutes after hearing it. Clara had been at Blackwood House for seven months. She cleaned bedrooms, polished silver, changed linens, and stayed out of family business. That was how she kept jobs.

But she had noticed things. Oliver never threw tantrums during breakfast. Never during walks outside. Never when the gardeners were around. Never when he played alone in the library. His worst attacks happened at almost exactly the same time. Between three and four in the afternoon. And always when someone tried to take him upstairs.

Clara looked at Oliver. The child was no longer watching his father. He was staring past everyone. Up the second staircase. Toward the third floor.

Clara followed his gaze. There was nothing unusual there. Just a hallway. Several guest bedrooms. A linen closet. And one locked room nobody on staff was supposed to enter. The east room.

Clara had asked about it once. Evelyn had answered immediately. “Storage.”

But Blackwood House had an entire basement for storage. And Clara had once seen Evelyn coming out of the east room at midnight. She had been carrying a small leather strap. Clara had told herself it was nothing.

Now Oliver whispered, “I don’t want to go upstairs.”

Damian climbed two steps. “Nobody is taking you anywhere.”

Evelyn intervened. “He needs to calm down in private.”

“No!” Oliver scrambled backward.

Evelyn turned toward a security guard. “Take him to his room.”

The guard hesitated. Oliver screamed again.

Clara moved before she thought about the consequences. “Wait.”

Every face turned toward her. Even Damian’s. Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. Clara immediately wished she could swallow the word.

Damian looked at her. “You’re Clara.”

It surprised her that he knew. “Yes, sir.”

“Why did you say wait?”

Clara’s mouth went dry.

Evelyn spoke first. “Mr. Blackwood, the staff is shaken. Perhaps—”

“I asked Clara.”

Silence. Clara looked up at Oliver. The little boy’s fingers were digging into the carpet. She slowly climbed the stairs. One step. Then another.

“Clara,” Evelyn warned.

Clara ignored her. She stopped several feet from Oliver and lowered herself until she was kneeling. “I’m not going to pick you up.”

Oliver stared at her.

“I’m not going to make you go anywhere.”

His breathing slowed slightly. Behind Clara, Damian watched without moving.

She lowered her voice. “No one is going to touch you.”

Oliver blinked. Then his entire face crumpled. For seven months Clara had seen him furious, defiant, screaming, kicking, breaking things. She had never seen him cry. Now tears spilled down his cheeks. He crawled toward her so quickly she almost fell backward. He grabbed her sleeve.

“Promise?”

Clara’s heart tightened. “I promise.”

Oliver looked over her shoulder at Evelyn. Then at his father. Then slowly lifted one trembling hand. He pointed toward the third floor. Toward the locked east room.

“That’s where they make me be good.”

Damian went completely still.

Clara whispered, “Who does?”

Oliver pressed himself against her. His next words were so quiet she almost didn’t hear them.

“Grandma Evelyn.”

A sound came from behind them. Keys. Evelyn’s hand had moved toward the ring at her waist.

Damian looked at the keys. Then at the third floor. His voice changed.

“Open that room.”

Evelyn’s face went pale. “Damian—”