Chapter 2 - THE TWENTY-SEVEN MINUTES
“Tell me you believe me.”
Dorcas had expected anger.
She had not expected that.
Mason Blackwell stood on the opposite side of the kitchen island with Eleanor’s prescription bottle clutched in his hand.
“I believe you believe you didn't put it there,” she said.
His eyes hardened.
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
“You think I took it.”
“I think we should find out what happened instead of deciding what happened.”
His fingers tightened around the bottle.
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“My father used to say facts are stubborn things.”
“What did he do?”
“Fixed furnaces.”
Mason almost laughed.
Almost.
Then his face closed again.
“I was in this kitchen at six-thirty that morning.”
“Okay.”
“I remember my mother asking for orange juice. I remember Henry bringing the mail.”
“Then?”
Mason stopped.
Dorcas waited.
His eyes shifted toward the dark window.
“Then it was 6:57.”
“What happened in between?”
“I don't know.”
There it was.
Not twenty-seven forgotten years.
Twenty-seven minutes.
Dorcas felt the hairs rise along her arms.
“You lost time?”
“I was tired.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
Mason looked furious because she had discovered that anger no longer frightened her.
“Yes.”
“Has it happened before?”
“No.”
Too fast.
“Mason.”
“Once.”
“When?”
He looked toward the hallway.
“The night my father died.”
The sentence seemed to lower the temperature in the room.
Dorcas had heard the name Arthur Blackwell. Everyone had. Twenty years earlier, the industrial billionaire had died after driving his car through a barrier on a rain-soaked road.
The official story had been an accident.
Mason had been twenty-one.
“What do you remember?”
“Nothing useful.”
Before Dorcas could answer, footsteps approached.
Dr. Adrian Fallon appeared in the doorway.
He was silver-haired, elegantly dressed and possessed the calm manner of a man who had spent decades telling wealthy people that mortality did not negotiate.
“Mr. Blackwell.”
Mason slipped the bottle into his palm.
“Doctor.”
“I heard the medication was found.”
Mason glanced at Dorcas.
“Apparently.”
“Where?”
“My jacket.”
Fallon's expression barely moved.
But Dorcas saw something.
Not surprise.
Calculation.
It lasted less than a second.
Then Fallon smiled sympathetically.
“You've been under extraordinary pressure.”
“I didn't put it there.”
“Of course.”
“That's not an answer.”
“Mason, sleep deprivation can cause memory lapses.”
Dorcas watched him carefully.
“How much sleep does it take to forget twenty-seven minutes?”
Fallon turned.
“And you are?”
“The cook.”
“Then perhaps medical discussions should remain between physician and family.”
“Probably.”
Dorcas smiled.
“But you didn't answer.”
Mason stared at her.
Fallon did not.
He opened his medical case.
“I'd like to examine Eleanor.”
Mason nodded.
After he left, Dorcas whispered, “He doesn't like me.”
“No one likes you.”
“Your mother does.”
“That proves my point.”
It was the first joke Mason had made since she arrived.
Neither acknowledged it.
That afternoon, Dorcas cooked Eleanor tomato soup from roasted tomatoes and basil.
Eleanor ate half the bowl.
“Victory,” Dorcas announced.
“You set modest goals.”
“That's how you get to the large ones.”
Eleanor smiled.
Then she asked, “Has Mason told you about his father?”
Dorcas stopped stirring.
“Why would you ask?”
“Because he looked exactly the way he did twenty years ago when he came upstairs this morning.”
“What way?”
“Like he was trying to outrun a memory.”
Eleanor's spoon trembled.
“Arthur died in November.”
“This month?”
“Twenty years ago this Friday.”
Dorcas sat down.
Eleanor stared at the soup.
“My son thinks his father died because of him.”
“Why?”
“He was the last person who saw Arthur alive.”
“What happened?”
“They argued.”
“About?”
Eleanor looked toward the open bedroom door.
Then whispered, “Me.”
Dorcas said nothing.
“Arthur had become paranoid near the end. He believed someone inside the company was stealing from him. He stopped sleeping. Started accusing people.”
“Like Mason?”
Eleanor's eyes lifted.
“That is what terrifies him.”
The answer struck Dorcas.
Mason was not afraid of losing control.
He was afraid he had inherited it.
Whatever had destroyed his father.
Whatever had made Arthur Blackwell paranoid.
Mason feared it was now happening to him.
That evening, Dorcas tested a theory.
She left a blue ceramic mug beside Mason's laptop.
Twenty minutes later, it was on the opposite side of the kitchen.
“Mason?”
“What?”
“Did you move that?”
He followed her finger.
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
Henry entered.
“Did you move the blue mug?”
“No, Miss Reed.”
Dorcas felt something cold settle in her stomach.
At midnight, she checked the kitchen cameras.
Or tried to.
The security system required authorization.
She found Mason in his study.
“I need camera access.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you are a cook.”
“Tonight I'm a cook who wants to know whether objects in your house are learning to walk.”
His expression sharpened.
She explained the mug.
Mason immediately opened the security program.
The kitchen feed showed Dorcas placing the mug beside his laptop at 8:13.
At 8:24, Mason walked away to answer a call.
At 8:26—
The screen went black.
At 8:31, the feed returned.
The mug had moved.
Mason replayed it.
Again.
Again.
“The camera malfunctioned,” he said.
“Conveniently.”
He checked another camera.
Same five-minute blackout.
Then another.
The hallway.
The study.
The rear entrance.
All dark from 8:26 to 8:31.
Someone had disabled the entire system.
Mason's face changed.
“Henry!”
The butler appeared moments later.
“Who has access to security?”
“You, me, Mr. Pike and the security company.”
“Pike?”
Dorcas asked.
Mason answered.
“Graham Pike. Head of security.”
“Where is he?”
Henry hesitated.
“He left early.”
Mason turned toward him.
“Why?”
“He said his daughter was ill.”
“Call him.”
Henry did.
No answer.
Mason reached for his phone.
Dorcas caught his wrist.
“Don't.”
He looked at her hand as though nobody had touched him without permission in twenty years.
“Why?”
“Because whoever is doing this wants you frightened.”
“You don't know that.”
“Someone hid medicine in your coat. Someone moved an object while the cameras were down. Either your house is haunted or someone wants you questioning your memory.”
Mason's eyes became very still.
“What do you suggest?”
“Pretend it worked.”
Silence.
Henry looked between them.
Mason slowly lowered his phone.
Dorcas released his wrist.
“You're telling me to act unstable.”
“No.”
She met his eyes.
“I'm telling you to let the person doing this think you're becoming unstable.”
For the first time, Mason did not look at Dorcas as his employee.
He looked at her as an ally.
At 1:14 a.m., Henry went upstairs.
Mason remained at the island.
Dorcas started washing a pan.
“You can go home,” he said.
“I live in the staff cottage.”
“Then go there.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you're scared.”
His jaw tightened.
“I am not—”
“You asked me to believe you.”
He stopped.
Dorcas dried her hands.
“I do.”
Something in his face cracked.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“Why?”
“Because scared men lie differently.”
He stared at her.
“And how do I lie?”
“Like a man trying to convince himself he doesn't need anyone.”
Dorcas turned toward the door.
Behind her Mason said, “Dorcas.”
It was the first time he had used her first name.
She looked back.
“Thank you.”
The words seemed painful for him.
She smiled faintly.
“See? Didn't kill you.”
The next morning brought something far worse.
Eleanor did not wake for breakfast.
Dorcas found her unconscious at 7:05.
Mason reached the bedroom seconds later.
“Mother?”
No response.
“Mother!”
He lifted her from the pillow as Dorcas called emergency services.
Dr. Fallon arrived before the ambulance.
Far too quickly.
He examined Eleanor, then reached for the prescription bottle on her bedside table.
His expression darkened.
“She may have taken too much.”
Mason stared.
“What?”
Fallon shook several tablets into his palm.
“This bottle should be nearly full.”
It wasn't.
Mason looked at Dorcas.
Then at the bottle.
Then at his own hands.
And Dorcas understood exactly what someone was trying to do.
The missing medicine had been returned.
Now Eleanor had apparently overdosed.
And the last person caught carrying that bottle—
May you like
was Mason.
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