Chapter 12 - The Dead Brother’s Key
That night, Julian slept like a man with no conscience—deep, rhythmic, and still.
Clara lay beside him under the down duvet, staring at the ceiling where headlights from the coastal highway cast long, skeletal shadows across the plaster. She waited until his breathing sank into the heavy cadence of REM sleep.
Carefully, shifting her weight ounce by ounce, she swung her legs over the mattress. Her swollen ankles throbbed. Her ribs ached where the baby kicked against her diaphragm.
She slipped Julian’s leather jacket off the vanity chair. It still carried the scent of sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and something faintly chemical—like the rubbing alcohol used in hospitals. She dug her fingers into the silk lining of the inner pocket.
Nothing. Just his platinum money clip and the key fob to the Volvo.
Then her fingers brushed against a slit in the lining near the armpit. A hidden seam.
Inside was a small, brass safety-deposit box key, stamped with the letters *SVB - 404*. Attached to the key ring was a laminated card: *St. Vincent’s Psychiatric Facility - Archive Wing, Boston.*
Clara’s lungs seized. Eleanor hadn't been transferred to Bedford Hills. Bedford Hills was a state correctional institution in New York. Why would Julian have a key tied to an elite private asylum in Massachusetts?
"Looking for a midnight snack, my love?"
Julian’s voice sliced through the darkness like a scalpel.
Clara froze, the brass key clenched in her fist, digging deep into her palm. She forced her shoulders to slacken, turning around slowly with the jacket clutched against her chest.
Julian was propped up on one elbow. His face was drowned in shadow, but the white of his teeth showed in a thin, razor-sharp smile.
"I was cold," Clara lied, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. "The coastal wind drafts right through these floorboards. I was going to put your jacket on."
Julian stared at her for five agonizing seconds. The wind rattled the windowpane, howling like an animal trapped in a snare.
"Come back to bed," he said softly, extending his arm. "You catch a chill, the baby catches a chill. And we can't afford any complications now. Not when we’re so close to the thirty-ninth week."
Clara swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She slid the jacket onto the chair, dropping the key into the deep pocket of her fleece robe, and climbed back into bed. When Julian pulled her into his chest, his fingers trailed down her throat, lingering precisely over her carotid artery.
May you like
He wasn't holding her. He was checking her pulse.
***
