CHAPTER 1 — THE BOY WHO NEVER SPOKE

The woman standing inside the mansion’s entrance did not smile.

She was tall, silver-haired, and dressed in a black uniform so perfectly pressed that Elena immediately straightened her own cardigan.

“Miss Reyes?” the woman asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m Margaret Bell. I manage the household.”

Elena extended her hand.

Margaret looked at it for a moment before shaking it.

Her grip was cold.

“Mr. Hawthorne is waiting in the library.”

Elena followed her through the mansion.

Every surface seemed designed to remind visitors they did not belong there. Marble floors reflected crystal chandeliers. Oil paintings of stern-looking men watched from gilded frames. Fresh flowers stood in porcelain vases that probably cost more than Elena’s family earned in a year.

But beneath the beauty, the house felt strangely lifeless.

No music.

No laughter.

No footsteps from children.

Only silence.

They passed the end of a long corridor.

A white door stood there.

Unlike the rest of the mansion, it was plain.

No gold handle.

No carved frame.

Just a white nursery door with a small brass lock.

Elena slowed.

From behind it came the faint sound of humming.

A woman’s voice.

Soft.

Broken.

Then it stopped.

Margaret turned sharply.

“Keep walking.”

Elena obeyed.

Inside the library, a man stood beside a wall of windows overlooking the harbor.

Nathaniel Hawthorne was forty-two, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a charcoal suit. His dark hair was touched with gray at the temples. His face was handsome, but exhausted.

“You’re younger than I expected,” he said.

“I’m qualified.”

“I read your references.”

“Then you know I’ve worked with children since I was sixteen.”

Nathaniel studied her.

“My son’s name is Oliver. He’s eight.”

“Does he have any medical conditions?”

“No.”

“Behavioral difficulties?”

Nathaniel hesitated.

“He doesn’t speak.”

Elena glanced at Margaret.

“Has he ever spoken?”

“He stopped two years ago,” Nathaniel said.

“After what?”

The room became quiet.

Margaret answered before Nathaniel could.

“His mother died.”

Elena softened.

“I’m sorry.”

Nathaniel turned toward the window.

“Oliver has rejected six nannies in fourteen months. Two lasted less than a day.”

“What happened?”

“One claimed he threatened her,” Margaret said. “Another said she heard voices.”

Nathaniel’s jaw tightened.

“Oliver is not dangerous.”

“I didn’t say he was.”

“You’ll live here from Monday morning through Saturday afternoon. Your family’s medical insurance will be covered. Your salary will be transferred weekly.”

The amount he named made Elena’s heart stop.

It was more than her mother had earned in six months.

“What exactly do you expect from me?”

“Keep him safe,” Nathaniel said.

“And help him speak again?”

“If possible.”

Elena looked toward the library door.

“What about the nursery at the end of the hall?”

Margaret’s expression changed.

“That room is not part of your responsibilities.”

“I heard someone inside.”

“You heard the heating system.”

“It sounded like a woman.”

Nathaniel turned back to her.

For the first time, she saw fear in his eyes.

“You are never to enter that room.”

The words were calm.

The meaning was not.

Before Elena could respond, something moved behind her.

An eight-year-old boy stood in the doorway.

Oliver Hawthorne was small for his age, with pale skin, dark blond hair, and enormous blue-gray eyes. He wore navy pajamas even though it was afternoon.

He stared at Elena.

Then at her worn handbag.

Elena crouched carefully.

“Hi, Oliver. I’m Elena.”

The boy said nothing.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to talk.”

He watched her for several seconds.

Then he lifted one hand and pointed down the hallway.

Toward the locked nursery.

Margaret moved quickly.

“Oliver, go upstairs.”

The boy did not move.

Instead, he pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Elena.

She opened it.

A child’s drawing showed a little boy standing outside the nursery door.

Behind the door was a woman with long black hair.

Across the top, Oliver had written three words in red crayon.

SHE IS ALIVE.

Elena looked up.

Oliver had already disappeared.

Nathaniel stared at the drawing as if it were a death sentence.

Margaret reached for it.

“Give me that.”

Elena pulled it back.

“Who is the woman behind the door?”

Nathaniel’s face hardened.

“There is no woman.”

From down the corridor came three slow knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

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Knock.

And this time, everyone in the library heard them.