Chapter 3 - THE MAN WHO NEVER SLEPT
The passage was older than Raphael.
Much older.
Architectural records dated it to 1928.
His great-grandfather built the original estate during Prohibition.
Secret corridors were useful when politicians drank illegal whiskey with men they publicly condemned.
But this passage had been sealed decades earlier.
Or supposedly sealed.
Raphael closed the house.
Nobody entered.
Nobody left.
Staff assembled in the ballroom.
Forty-three people.
Cooks.
Maids.
Drivers.
Security.
Gardeners.
Administrative staff.
I stood near Freddy.
She whispered:
“Why is Mr. Orsini looking at you?”
“He isn’t.”
“He has looked at you five times.”
“Count something useful.”
“I am.”
Dominic announced security inspections.
Raphael said little.
Then he surprised everyone.
“No one is accused.”
Dominic looked at him.
Raphael continued.
“Your rooms will not be searched without you present. Personal belongings remain personal unless evidence requires otherwise.”
That was not how men like Raphael traditionally conducted investigations.
Somebody had changed his thinking.
I refused to consider who.
The hidden corridor produced fingerprints.
Most old.
Three recent.
Raphael.
Dominic.
And—
Sabine.
Raphael’s sister.
She did not deny it.
“I knew about the passage.”
Raphael stared at her.
“For how long?”
“Since I was seventeen.”
“And you said nothing?”
“Father showed me.”
Their father, Matteo Orsini, died six years earlier.
Sabine explained that Matteo used the corridor to secretly monitor Raphael.
Their father believed heirs should never know when they were observed.
Raphael’s expression became dangerous.
“He watched me sleep?”
“He watched everyone.”
Sabine looked ashamed.
“Father called privacy an indulgence.”
That explained the passage.
Not the recent photographs.
“Did you take these?” Raphael asked.
“No.”
“Can you prove it?”
“No.”
Her honesty saved her from sounding guilty.
Dominic searched the passage more thoroughly.
They found a fiber-optic camera.
Modern.
Installed within the last year.
And something stranger.
A microphone near Raphael’s bed.
Someone had not merely watched him.
They recorded him sleeping.
“Why?” I asked.
Raphael looked at me.
“I don’t talk in my sleep.”
“How do you know?”
He paused.
Good point.
Audio files were recovered from a hidden storage device.
Night after night.
Breathing.
Sheets moving.
Occasional words.
Then night forty-three.
Raphael said a name.
“Julian.”
Everyone in the room changed.
I noticed.
“Who is Julian?”
Nobody answered.
Raphael dismissed the room.
Except me.
I should have left anyway.
Instead, I waited.
“Julian was my younger brother.”
Was.
“He died?”
“Fourteen years ago.”
“How?”
Raphael looked through the window.
“Officially?”
That word told me everything.
“Officially, suicide.”
“And unofficially?”
“I don’t know.”
Raphael had been twenty-five.
Julian nineteen.
One morning, Julian was found dead in a lake house belonging to the Orsini family.
Gun nearby.
Door locked.
Note written in his handwriting.
Police ruled suicide.
Raphael never believed it.
“Why?”
“Because Julian was left-handed.”
I felt cold.
“The gun?”
“Right hand.”
Raphael continued.
Their father suppressed questions.
The family needed stability.
Matteo told Raphael grief was private and leadership was public.
Three days after Julian’s funeral, Raphael attended a shipping negotiation.
Never publicly spoke of his brother again.
Until night forty-three.
Someone had been recording his sleep hoping he would say something.
“What?”
Raphael looked at me.
“That is what I intend to learn.”
That evening, Micah called.
His face filled my phone screen.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He grinned.
Then coughed.
Too long.
I immediately sat straighter.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“So are you.”
“What?”
“You look worried.”
Micah knew me too well.
We talked about school.
Chess.
His infusion Friday.
Then he said:
“Some guy came asking about you.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“What guy?”
“Tall. Expensive coat.”
“Name?”
“No.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked how long you’d worked for the Orsinis.”
I stood.
“Did you tell him?”
“I told him to Google it.”
Despite fear, I smiled.
“That’s my brother.”
After the call, I went straight to Raphael.
He was in the hidden passage.
Alone.
I told him.
His expression became frighteningly calm.
“Micah gets security.”
“No.”
“Elena.”
“No armed strangers around a twelve-year-old treatment center.”
“Then plainclothes.”
“No.”
“Someone approached your brother because of me.”
“Yes.”
“So let me protect him.”
I wanted to refuse.
Pride was expensive.
Micah was priceless.
“One person,” I said. “The hospital approves them. Micah knows who they are.”
“Done.”
“And you don’t pay his bills.”
Raphael’s expression shifted.
“I didn’t offer.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
He stared.
Then laughed.
It was the second time I heard it.
This one lasted longer.
Later, while we examined the photographs, I noticed one had been taken somewhere else.
Raphael asleep.
But not in his bedroom.
“Where is this?”
His smile disappeared.
“The lake house.”
Julian’s lake house.
The photograph was dated three months ago.
Raphael had visited alone.
On the back:
HE DIDN’T KILL HIMSELF.
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Below that:
ASK WHAT HAPPENED AT 3:13.
