the device inside the one object he used every night, and watched his symptoms grow worse while doctors searched for illnesses that were never there.
Someone inside this house had been killing him slowly.
A shadow filled the doorway.
Vincent Costello stood there in a black silk robe, his hair disheveled, his face unreadable. Behind him, two guards stared into the room with hands near their jackets. No one spoke.
Fiona lifted the torn pillow.
Needles glinted beneath the light.
Vincent took one step forward.
For the first time since Fiona had met him, the most feared man in Chicago looked afraid.
\”What is that?\” he asked.
\”A murder attempt,\” Fiona said.
The words landed harder than a gunshot.
Arthur whimpered against her shoulder. Vincent’s eyes moved from the pillow to his son’s bleeding neck, then back again. His jaw tightened until a muscle jumped near his temple.
\”Who touched this pillow?\” he asked.
Fiona did not answer at once.
She was replaying the evening.
At seven, Arthur had eaten soup and half a roll. At seven-thirty, Isabella had visited with warm milk and a honey cookie. At eight, Fiona had checked his vitals. At eight-fifteen, the maid removed the tray. At eight-thirty, Isabella returned alone and told Fiona she could take a break because she wanted to read Arthur a bedtime story.
Fiona had hesitated.
Isabella had smiled.
\”You look exhausted, dear. I can sit with my own stepson for twenty minutes.\”
When Fiona came back, Arthur was asleep.
The pillowcase had looked fresh.
Too fresh.
Fiona turned it inside out now and lifted it to her nose.
Jasmine and smoke.
Isabella’s perfume.
Vincent saw the realization cross her face.
\”Say the name,\” he said.
Before Fiona could speak, a soft voice came from the hallway.
\”What is happening?\”
Isabella Costello stood beyond the guards in a white nightgown, one hand resting on her stomach. Her dark hair fell over one shoulder. Her face was arranged in concern, but her eyes were fixed on the pillow.
Not with horror.
With calculation.
She was pregnant.
The whole household knew. Vincent had announced it two weeks earlier at dinner, his hand resting stiffly on Isabella’s chair while Arthur stared down at his plate. Everyone had congratulated them. Arthur had tried to smile.
That night, Fiona found him crying in the bathroom.
\”Daddy will still love you,\” she had told him.
Arthur had looked at her in the mirror.
\”She says babies replace things,\” he whispered.
At the time, Fiona thought it was cruelty.
Now she understood it had been a threat.
Vincent turned slowly toward his wife.
\”Come here, Isabella.\”
She did not move.
\”Vincent, you’re scaring me.\”
Fiona held up the pillow. \”This was under his head.\”
Isabella’s hand tightened over her stomach.
Only for a second.
Then she laughed softly.
\”That disgusting thing? You think I made that? I can barely sew a button.\”
Arthur’s fingers curled into Fiona’s sleeve.
His voice was barely audible.
\”She said if I told Daddy, the baby would be next.\”
Everything stopped.
The guards stopped breathing. Vincent’s face emptied. Isabella’s smile disappeared so quickly it was like watching a candle get pinched out.
\”Arthur,\” she said gently, \”you’re confused. You’ve been very sick.\”
The boy flinched.
Fiona felt it.
And in that flinch,
