Chapter 6 - The Poisoned Well
By week three of my probation, a fragile peace had begun to settle over the estate. The destruction had stopped. The boys were sleeping through the night, sleeping in their own rooms now, provided I left their doors cracked open and kept a nightlight shaped like a blue whale glowing in the hallway.
We were sitting in the newly renovated kitchen, baking ridiculously lopsided chocolate chip cookies, when the heavy oak front doors clicked open.
A woman walked into the kitchen, her red soles clicking sharply on the tile. She was stunning in an icy, aristocratic way—wearing a cream silk suit, gold jewelry gleaming against her collarbones, and carrying a crocodile-skin handbag.
"Julian?" she called out, her voice melodious and sharp. "Julian, darling, where is the staff? The front gate was left on auto-pilot."
The boys instantly went rigid. Danny dropped his cookie cutter into the dough. Tommy’s eyes hardened into the dark, feral glare I hadn't seen in weeks.
"Who is that?" I whispered to Bobby.
"Aunt Victoria," Bobby whimpered, shrinking behind my apron. "Mommy’s sister. She gives us the bitter tea that makes our bellies hurt."
My instincts, honed by years of surviving deceptive foster mothers, immediately went on high alert.
Victoria walked into the kitchen, her eyes sweeping over the flour-dusted counters, the mess, and finally settling on me. Her lips curled into a faint, condescending sneer.
"Ah. You must be Number Eighteen," Victoria said, pulling off her leather gloves finger by finger. "I must admit, I am surprised you’ve lasted three weeks. The agency said they hired a girl from... less fortunate origins this time."
"I'm Maya," I said evenly, wiping my floury hands on a towel. "And you are?"
"Victoria Vance. Eleanor's sister, and the trustee of the boys' inheritance trust," she said smoothly, stepping toward the counter. She reached out to touch Tommy’s head, but the boy pulled away so hard he nearly knocked his stool over. Victoria didn't seem bothered; her smile remained fixed, glassy and cold. "I brought the boys their weekly herbal supplements. Julian agrees their emotional volatility requires organic intervention."
She pulled a small, brown glass dropper bottle from her designer bag and set it on the island.
My gaze locked onto that bottle. In the foster system, you learn about "calming drops"—the unprescribed, unregulated sedatives shady caretakers use to keep kids quiet and docile.
"What's in that?" I asked, my voice dangerously low.
"Just chamomile and concentrated botanical extracts," Victoria replied, her eyes narrowing slightly as she picked up on my tone. "It was prescribed by their previous private physician. The one I recommended before... all those unfortunate nanny incidents."
May you like
I reached out and picked up the bottle before she could touch it again. "I’ll run it by their current pediatrician first," I said.
For a split second, the polished mask on Victoria’s face slipped, revealing a flash of absolute, murderous rage.
