Chapter 6: What Mrs. Gable Had Always Known
The meeting happened in the estate's formal dining room at ten in the morning, with snow still pressing hard against the windows and the heating system running at full capacity through the corridors.
Lorenzo sat at the head of the long table.
Two of his men stood near the doors.
Mrs.
Gable sat three chairs away, her back straight, her hands folded on the table in front of her.
She had dressed carefully.
Her hair was pinned.
She looked exactly like a woman who had nothing to hide.
"Thank you for making the time, Mrs.
Gable," Lorenzo said.
"Of course, Mr.
Moretti.
Whatever I can do."
"Tell me about the care arrangements for my father."
She told him, smoothly and confidently, essentially the same story she had told every time anyone had asked in five years.
The doctors' recommendations.
The dietary restrictions.
The limited stimulation.
The careful management of his daily routine.
Lorenzo let her finish.
Then he placed a sheet of paper on the table and slid it toward her.
"These are the meal allocations for the east wing over the past three months.
I had my assistant pull them from the kitchen logs this morning." He watched her look at the page.
"As you can see, the records show cold oatmeal and water as the primary meal for my father, delivered once per day, six days out of seven, for the majority of this period.
On the seventh day — typically Sunday — there's no delivery recorded at all."
Mrs.
Gable looked up.
"The records may not reflect—"
"The notation in your handwriting reads: standard dietary protocol for patient with advanced swallowing complications." He tapped the page.
"My father has no such complication.
I spoke with his neurologist in the city this morning.
Her records show no swallowing restriction of any kind."
A pause.
Mrs.
Gable's folded hands adjusted slightly on the table.
"There may have been a miscommunication at some point between the medical team and the estate—"
"Mrs.
Gable." His voice didn't rise.
It just stopped her.
"I have the phone records from this estate for the last five years.
In that time, my father's neurologist was contacted by this estate twice.
Both contacts were initiated by me.
You have never called her.
You have never received a call from her.
There is no miscommunication because there was never a communication."
She was quiet.
"Who told you to reduce his care?"
"No one told me anything.
I used my professional judgment."
"Then why did your professional judgment include locking a man in a freezing room in the dark with cold food he couldn't eat alone?"
For the first time, something showed in her face.
Not guilt.
Not remorse.
Something harder than either.
"Your father is a very difficult man to manage, Mr.
Moretti.
He was uncooperative.
He was unresponsive.
The staff found his condition distressing.
I made decisions to minimize the burden on—"
"On yourself."
"On the household."
Lorenzo leaned back.
He studied her for a long moment.
"A pregnant girl earning minimum wage bought him a heated blanket with her own money.
She brought him hot food from the kitchen every day.
She bathed him.
She talked to him.
She did all of this while you were actively assigning her the heaviest physical labor in the estate."
"The girl was hired to work.
She had duties."
"You dug your nails into her wrists hard enough to leave bruises that were still visible twenty-four hours later."
Mrs.
Gable said nothing.
"I want to ask you about someone," Lorenzo said.
"A man named Brody Callahan."
Something moved behind her eyes.
It was small and fast and she controlled it well.
But Lorenzo had spent his entire adult life watching people's faces across tables, and he caught it.
"I'm not familiar with that name," she said.
"He appeared at the estate gate this morning.
Roughly six hours after I arrived and began asking questions about my father's care." Lorenzo held her gaze.
"He's the father of Nora's unborn child.
He abandoned her six months ago.
She told no one where she was working.
Which means someone here provided her location to a man who has every reason to want leverage over her."
"I don't know what you're suggesting."
"I'm not suggesting anything yet." He picked up the sheet of paper and straightened it.
"I'm giving you an opportunity to tell me the complete truth.
Right now.
In this room.
Before I make any decisions."
Mrs.
Gable was quiet for long enough that the room felt it.
Then she said: "I want to speak with a lawyer before I answer any further questions."
Lorenzo nodded once.
"That's your right." He stood up.
"You're relieved of your duties effective immediately.
You'll remain on the estate grounds until the weather clears — the blizzard makes travel unsafe.
After that, you're free to go."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"That's it?"
"For now," Lorenzo said.
"Sal will show you to a guest room."
She stood, smoothed her jacket, and walked toward the door.
She had almost reached it when Lorenzo spoke again.
"Mrs.
Gable."
She stopped but didn't turn.
"My father wrote Nora a note last night.
In his own hand.
After five years of everyone in this building telling each other he was incapable." He paused.
"I want you to think about what else he may have been capable of that nobody noticed.
What else he may have seen.
What else he may have recorded, in whatever way was available to him."
She turned the door handle and left.
Sal looked at Lorenzo from across the room.
"Do you want me to—"
May you like
"Not yet," Lorenzo said.
"But don't let her out of your sight."
