Chapter 2 - THE TABLET THAT DIDN'T BELONG
-2
Hannah did not sleep that night.
She sat in the small bedroom assigned to her on the second floor with her laptop open and Ethan’s latest paper crane beside it.
Her brother was staying with Mrs. Alvarez, their longtime neighbor, while Hannah worked live-in shifts.
Normally Ethan called before bed.
That night he had asked why Hannah sounded strange.
“Long day.”
“Did the scary rich guy yell at you?”
“Nicholas isn’t scary.”
“You said everyone thinks he is.”
“Everyone thinks lots of things.”
Ethan had considered that.
“Is he nice?”
Hannah looked toward the wall separating the staff wing from Nicholas’s rooms.
“Sometimes.”
“That means no.”
She laughed despite herself.
After they hung up, Hannah opened her mother’s old digital records.
Rebecca Reed.
Nurse.
Mother.
Widow.
The woman who cut coupons even when chemotherapy left her too weak to stand.
The woman who taught Hannah to check medication labels twice.
The woman who once said, “People lie. Bodies usually don’t.”
Not once had Rebecca mentioned Nicholas Valenti.
Not once had she mentioned Walter Bell.
Hannah searched archived employment information.
Nothing.
Rebecca’s nursing license history showed St. Catherine’s Hospital and two rehabilitation centers.
No Valenti estate.
No private household.
But private employment often disappeared from ordinary records.
At 5:40 a.m., Hannah gave up trying to sleep.
Nicholas was already awake when she entered his room.
“You look terrible,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He sat by the window wearing a dark T-shirt and gray sweatpants.
Without the formal clothing and hard expression, he looked younger.
Still dangerous.
Still Nicholas Valenti.
But more human.
Hannah checked his blood pressure.
“Tell me about my mother.”
Nicholas stared toward the lake.
“I was fifteen.”
“That was twenty years ago.”
“Yes.”
“What was she doing here?”
“My mother was sick.”
“With what?”
“Cancer.”
Hannah paused.
Her mother had eventually died of cancer too.
“What kind?”
“Ovarian.”
Rebecca had died of breast cancer.
Different disease.
Still, the similarity unsettled her.
“Your mother hired mine?”
“My father did.”
“What was her name?”
“Lucia.”
Hannah waited.
Nicholas continued.
“Lucia Valenti hated hospitals. My father built a medical room here so she could spend her last months at home.”
“And my mother was her nurse.”
“One of them.”
“Why did she leave?”
Nicholas’s jaw tightened.
“I was told she stole medication.”
Hannah’s hand stopped.
“My mother never stole anything.”
“I know.”
“You just said—”
“I said I was told.”
He looked at her.
“I didn’t believe it then either.”
“What happened?”
“Rebecca accused someone else of changing my mother’s medication schedule.”
“Who?”
Nicholas’s gaze moved toward the door.
“You know who.”
“Walter?”
“Yes.”
Hannah stared at him.
“Walter was involved in your mother’s medical care?”
“He handled everything for my father. Bills. Staff. Security. Doctors. Business.”
“Why would he change medication?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did your mother die because of it?”
“I don’t know that either.”
Nicholas sounded angry now.
Not at Hannah.
At his own uncertainty.
“I was fifteen. My father told me Rebecca was dismissed. Two weeks later, she disappeared from our lives.”
“She went back to hospital work.”
“I tried to find her later.”
Hannah blinked.
“You did?”
“After my father died.”
“When?”
“Twelve years ago.”
“My mother was alive.”
“I know.”
“Did you contact her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Nicholas looked away.
“Walter told me she wanted nothing to do with this family.”
That sentence sat between them.
Hannah thought of the man who had greeted her on her first day.
You’ve had trouble at a hospital.
Walter knew her history.
Had he also known exactly who her mother was?
“Did Walter hire me?”
“The agency recommended you.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Nicholas looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
Hannah finished checking his vital signs.
“Don’t take anything Claire gives you.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“That sounded almost like an order.”
“It is.”
“You're brave before breakfast.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Nicholas lowered his voice.
“If Claire is doing something to my medication, why?”
“That’s what we need to prove.”
“We?”
“You’re my patient.”
“For now.”
The phrase bothered her.
Before she could answer, the door opened.
Claire entered wearing a cashmere robe.
She carried coffee and an apologetic expression.
“Nicholas.”
He became visibly colder.
Claire placed the coffee down.
“Hannah, could you give us a minute?”
“No.”
Claire smiled tightly.
“I’m speaking to my fiancé.”
“And I’m monitoring him after last night.”
“I apologized.”
Nicholas laughed once.
“You haven’t apologized.”
Claire ignored him.
“I was emotional.”
“You slapped a disabled man after knocking over his wheelchair.”
“I did not knock it over.”
“You shoved it.”
Claire’s face sharpened.
“I was trying to stop you from leaving.”
“With my wheelchair?”
Hannah watched carefully.
Claire realized arguing was dangerous.
Her expression softened instantly.
“I’m sorry.”
Nicholas said nothing.
Claire knelt beside him.
Photographers would have loved the pose.
“I’m under pressure too.”
Nicholas looked down.
“From what?”
“The wedding. The press. Your recovery.”
“My recovery pressures you?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No. Explain.”
Claire stood.
“You weren’t like this before.”
“Before what?”
“The accident.”
There it was.
Hannah watched Nicholas absorb it.
Claire had said it like accusation.
Nicholas leaned back.
“Neither were you.”
Claire left without giving him the tablet.
By noon, Hannah received a call from the independent laboratory she had used through a physician she trusted.
The first sample contained a prescription sedating agent.
Not a vitamin.
The second contained the same compound.
Hannah’s stomach turned.
The substance was medically legitimate in appropriate circumstances.
Nicholas had no prescription for it.
His treating neurologist had not ordered it.
His primary physician had not ordered it.
His rehabilitation physician had not ordered it.
Someone was giving him an undisclosed drug capable of worsening confusion, coordination, and alertness.
Hannah documented everything.
She did not tell Claire.
Instead, she contacted Dr. Priya Patel, the rehabilitation specialist who had been frustrated by Nicholas’s inconsistent progress.
Hannah asked one question.
“Did you ever prescribe an additional evening sedative?”
“No.”
“Did anyone discuss one with you?”
“No.”
Dr. Patel went quiet.
“Hannah, why?”
“I need you to come to the house.”
“What happened?”
“I’d rather show you.”
Dr. Patel arrived that afternoon.
Nicholas allowed a full review.
When Hannah handed over the laboratory report, Dr. Patel’s expression changed.
“This is not on my list.”
Nicholas watched her.
“What would it do?”
“Depending on amount and timing, it could contribute to some symptoms you’ve experienced.”
“Could it make me look cognitively impaired?”
Dr. Patel hesitated.
“It could certainly affect alertness and memory.”
Nicholas’s expression became cold.
Hannah understood exactly what he was thinking.
Claire had repeatedly told people he was confused.
At medical appointments, she answered questions for him.
At business meetings, she told Walter he was tired.
At the engagement party, she had corrected him twice in front of guests.
Once, when Nicholas forgot the name of a donor, Claire touched his shoulder and said:
“His memory still comes and goes.”
Hannah had thought it was concern.
Now it looked like narrative-building.
Dr. Patel ordered broader tests and adjusted Nicholas’s care so every medication passed through Hannah or another licensed nurse.
No family-administered supplements.
No exceptions.
When Claire learned about the change, she was furious.
“This is ridiculous.”
Nicholas sat in the library.
“No more tablets.”
“They were vitamins.”
“They weren’t.”
Claire froze.
Only for a fraction of a second.
Then she turned toward Hannah.
“You tested them?”
“Yes.”
“Without permission?”
“With his permission.”
Claire looked at Nicholas.
“You let her?”
“Yes.”
The room changed.
Claire understood she had lost something.
Not control entirely.
But secrecy.
That evening Nicholas was clearer than Hannah had seen him in weeks.
By the third evening without Claire’s tablet, the difference was unmistakable.
He stayed awake through dinner.
His hands trembled less.
He remembered conversations.
He beat Walter at chess for the first time in months.
Walter stared at the board.
“Impressive.”
Nicholas smiled.
“I’m having a good day.”
Walter’s eyes flicked toward Hannah.
That look lasted one second.
It told her everything.
Walter knew something had changed.
Later, Hannah helped Nicholas prepare for bed.
He hated assistance.
She had learned to wait until he asked.
“I can do the shirt.”
“I know.”
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m standing six feet away.”
“That counts.”
Hannah smiled.
Then Nicholas’s hand froze on a button.
“What?”
he asked.
Hannah had noticed a bruise beneath his collarbone.
Older.
Yellow at the edges.
Another along his upper arm.
She had seen bruising before and attributed some of it to transfers.
Now she wasn’t sure.
“Who caused those?”
Nicholas looked down.
“Therapy.”
“The upper arm?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
He didn’t answer.
Hannah waited.
Finally Nicholas said, “Claire grabs when she’s angry.”
“How often?”
“Not often.”
“How often?”
He looked at the wall.
“Three times.”
“Before last night?”
“Yes.”
Hannah felt anger rise.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Nicholas laughed bitterly.
“Tell my nurse my fiancée pushes me around?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand abuse.”
That word hit him.
He turned.
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s not what this is.”
“A person hitting, grabbing, humiliating, or controlling a physically dependent partner is abuse.”
“I’m not dependent.”
Hannah softened her voice.
“Needing assistance right now does not make you weak.”
His face closed.
She realized she had reached something deeper than pride.
This was a man whose entire identity had been built around control.
Now his own body betrayed him.
Admitting Claire abused him meant admitting she had exploited his vulnerability.
He looked toward the dark window.
“I used to terrify people.”
“That doesn’t protect you from being harmed.”
He smiled without humor.
“You always talk like this?”
“Only when patients are being stubborn.”
He looked at her again.
Then said quietly:
“Take pictures.”
Hannah documented the bruises with Nicholas’s consent.
When she finished, he asked, “Enough proof?”
“For the bruises.”
“And the tablets?”
“Strong evidence.”
“What else do you need?”
“To know who ordered them. Who bought them. Who supplied them.”
Nicholas’s eyes darkened.
“Claire.”
“Maybe.”
“You still think there’s someone else.”
“Yes.”
“Walter.”
Hannah did not answer.
Nicholas leaned back.
“Say it.”
“I think Walter knew my mother.”
“That’s not evidence of anything happening now.”
“I know.”
“He knew about the other nurses.”
“Yes.”
“He hired staff.”
“Yes.”
“And yesterday, when my medication changed, he watched you instead of me.”
Nicholas was silent.
Then Hannah asked:
“Why did the other three nurses leave?”
He frowned.
“Personality conflicts.”
“Who told you that?”
“Walter.”
“Did you ever speak to them afterward?”
“No.”
Hannah opened her laptop.
She had already begun searching.
One former nurse had moved to Wisconsin.
Another worked at a clinic in Indiana.
The third was harder to locate.
But Hannah had found one social-media account.
Private.
A profile photograph.
Name: Sofia Martinez.
Hannah sent a professional message.
She did not expect a response.
At 11:18 p.m., one arrived.
Three sentences.
I wondered when someone would finally contact me.
May you like
Do not trust Claire.
And whatever you do, do not tell Walter what you found.
