Page 48 of Scarred By Sin

“Does that mean you believe Nestor murdered those women?”

"I'm not ready to change the profiles just yet," Brook murmured as she replaced the rug and moved toward the kitchen. She opened the pantry door and examined the back wall, running her fingertips along the edges of the shelving. The surface was old but uniform, with no gaps or irregularities. The pantry smelled of cardboard and dust, and the shelves held more basics than variety. Brook suspected Porter had taken most of his meals in the main house, eating whatever he'd bought for Gwenyth rather than keeping a separate kitchen for himself. "Two victims have been confirmed to have had cancer. Two is still a coincidence. Three is a pattern."

She shook her head at the irony of her own words.

Theo shot her a questioning look.

“I was thinking earlier that I don’t necessarily believe in coincidences,” Brook said as she closed the pantry and moved to the utility closet. “Porter’s accident is looking more and more like just that. An accident. And now, here I am using the word coincidence to describe two cancer victims being buried in the same greenhouse.”

“Context matters,” Theo said from the hallway, where he was running his hand along the doorframe of the bedroom. “Porter’s brake lines were worn. That’s mechanical failure, not intent. Two women with cancer ending up in the same greenhouse thirty years ago is something else entirely.”

“Which is why I need a third confirmation before I shift the profile.”

They continued to search in a methodical silence, working their way through the cottage room by room. The bedroom was small, with a single window facing the tree line and a bed neatly made in a way that reminded Brook of Graham. A flannel shirt hung over the back of a chair near the closet, as though Porter had draped it there one evening and never gotten around to putting it away.

The bathroom held nothing but the usual. The medicine cabinet contained aspirin, antacids, and a bottle of blood pressure medication with Porter’s name on the label. A closet near the back door contained coats, boots, and cleaning supplies arranged with the kind of order that suggested Porter had known where every item was without having to look.

Every wall was solid.

Every floorboard was flush.

There was no latch, no hatch, no panel that gave way under pressure.

Theo stood in the center of the living room and turned in a slow circle, taking in the full space one more time. His gaze moved from the ceiling to the floor, across each wall, measuring proportions the way he’d been trained to assess a room. She’d already done the same.

“There are no additions,” Theo stated matter-of-factly as he rested his hands on his hips. “The walls are as they appear. Whatever construction Nestor had done to this cottage, it wasn’t to add a hidden room. It could have been plumbing, electrical, or structural repair. Any number of things that wouldn’t leave a visible trace.”

Brook leaned against the kitchen counter. The linoleum beneath her feet showed decades of the same path walked between the same points. Cal had mentioned Nestor renovated the kitchen in the main house and the guest cottage. If the cottage didn’t hold the lab, and the greenhouse didn’t hold the lab, that brought her back to the main house.

Fourteen rooms, not including the bathrooms.

Thick stone walls on the ground floor, interior walls on the second, plus a split staircase with an elaborate library tucked behind it, along with a large kitchen and pantry.

“Do you think there could be a hidden room somewhere in the mansion?”

“Absolutely.” Theo crossed his arms and leaned against the back of the couch. “That house is massive. A building that size, with those thick walls, could easily conceal an additional space. You wouldn’t even notice the square footage was off unless you measured every room against the exterior footprint.”

“Then that’s what we do next. We measure.”

Brook opened her mouth to continue, but a sharp kick beneath her lungs stole the words. She winced and pressed her hand to the spot where the baby’s foot had connected with a rib.

“You alright?”

“The baby is moving, that’s all.” Brook gently rubbed the spot, waiting for the next kick. “Apparently, my rib cage is now a personal gymnasium.”

The concern on Theo’s face softened into something warmer. His expression shifted, and his single brown eye tracked the movement of her hand across her stomach. It was as if he wanted to experience it for himself but was too respectful to ask. Brook recognized the expression. She’d seen it on Graham’s face a hundred times, and on Arden’s once or twice, though the older man had turned away before she could call him on it.

She motioned for Theo to come closer.

“Give me your hand.”

He hesitated for only a moment before crossing the room. Brook took his hand and placed it over the spot where the baby’s feet were positioned. They stood there in silence for a few seconds, Theo’s palm warm and steady through her blouse against the curve of her stomach. The baby finally shifted and delivered another kick, this one strong enough that his palm lifted slightly from the pressure.

His laugh was sudden and genuine, the kind that came from somewhere deeper than amusement. It filled the small cottage the way that she assumed Porter would have enjoyed.

“That’s a strong kid,” Theo said, still grinning as he stepped back.

“That’s Graham’s genetics for you,” Brook corrected, though the warmth in her voice undercut the deflection.