THE DRAWINGS

SERENA

I'm still holding Leo's drawing of the house with no door when I hear footsteps behind me, the soft padding of leather soles against hardwood floor. I turn, and Alexander is standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his bruised hands hanging at his sides like wounded animals. He looks at me, then at Leo, then at the drawing in my hands, and something flickers across his face—something I can't quite name, something that might be hope or fear or both.

"Come with me," he says, and his voice is flat, controlled, the voice of a man who's learned to keep his emotions locked away in a vault. "There's something else you need to see."

I glance at Leo, who has already retreated back into his silence, his gaze fixed on the wall again, his small body folded into itself like he's trying to disappear. I set the drawing down gently on his desk, making sure he sees me handling it with care, and follow Alexander out of the room, closing the door softly behind me. He leads me through the penthouse, past the cold, minimalist living room with its sharp edges and muted tones, past the gleaming kitchen that looks like it's never been used, to a study I haven't seen before. It's the only room in the apartment that feels lived in—books stacked on every surface, papers scattered across the desk, a half-empty coffee cup sitting on the windowsill with a ring of dried brown at the bottom. But it's not the chaos that catches my attention. It's the drawings spread across the desk, a stack of papers that makes my stomach drop like a stone.

Alexander gestures toward them, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid. "These are the ones he drew before you came. The ones I didn't show you."

I step forward, my heart pounding against my ribs, and I pick up the first drawing. My fingers tremble as I hold it, the paper thin and slightly crumpled. It's a car—a black SUV, crushed on one side like a tin can, flames licking the windows with hungry orange tongues. Inside, I see two stick figures with X's for eyes, their bodies twisted and broken, their arms bent at impossible angles. The detail is chilling, the kind of precision that no child should be capable of, the kind of memory that no child should have to carry. I feel a cold knot form in my stomach, tightening with each beat of my heart.

I set it down and pick up the second drawing. A crash. Wheels spinning in the air, suspended like they're floating. A woman in a red dress standing beside the wreckage, her features blank, her arms outstretched like she's reaching for something she can't quite grasp. The red of her dress is the only color in the drawing, stark and vivid against the gray of the scene, and it draws my eye like a wound. I stare at her faceless figure, at the way she seems to hover above the chaos, and I feel a chill creep down my spine.

And then I pick up the third drawing. My blood runs cold.

It's a man. Tall, shadowed, his face hidden in darkness like he's stepped out of a nightmare. He's holding something in his hand—a knife, or a wrench, it's hard to tell from the child's shaky lines. Gold glints on his wrist, a watch catching the light, and I feel my breath catch in my throat. At the bottom of the page, in shaky red crayon, a single word that seems to pulse with accusation: HE DID IT.

My hands are trembling. I can feel the paper shaking between my fingers, can feel the weight of what I'm holding pressing down on me like a physical force. I look up at Alexander, and my voice comes out barely above a whisper, rough and strained. "He drew this?"

"Last week." Alexander's voice is tight, controlled, but I can hear the strain beneath it, the barely contained emotion. "The therapist thinks it's just anxiety. Processing trauma. Children often draw scary things to cope."

"Or he's drawing what he saw."

The words slip out before I can stop them, and the air between us turns electric, charged with something I can't name. Alexander's eyes narrow, his jaw clenching so hard I can see the muscle twitch beneath his skin. "What did you say?"

I hold up the drawing of the man with the gold watch, my hand steady despite the tremor in my chest. "Children don't invent details like this. They reproduce them. This isn't imagination, Alexander. This is memory."

He stares at me, his gray eyes stormy and volatile, his fists clenching at his sides like he's fighting the urge to punch something. "I don't want to hear this," he says, and his voice is rough, almost dangerous, like a warning. "The accident was investigated. It was a drunk driver. Case closed."

"Was it?"

The question hangs between us, heavy and charged, and I don't look away. I hold his gaze, letting him see that I'm not afraid of his anger, that I'm not going to back down. Alexander doesn't answer. He just stands there, his chest rising and falling with rapid, uneven breaths, his storm-gray eyes searching mine like he's looking for something he's not sure he'll find.

"Everyone told me I was grieving," he says finally, and his voice cracks, just slightly, just enough for me to hear the pain beneath the control. "They told me I was paranoid. That I was looking for someone to blame because I couldn't accept that my brother died in a random accident." He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the dark strands in a gesture that seems almost unconscious. "I wanted to believe them. I wanted to believe it was just bad luck, that there was no one to blame. But then Leo started drawing these, and I couldn't... I couldn't pretend anymore."

I look down at the drawing again, at the shadowed man with the gold watch, at the red crayon scrawl that screams HE DID IT. "Who is the man with the gold watch?" I ask, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "Do you know?"

Alexander shakes his head, a jerky, frustrated motion. "I don't know. But I've been asking questions. Quietly. And people have been... reluctant to answer." His hands clench and unclench at his sides, and I notice the bruises again, the raw, split skin, the purple and red splotches that cover his knuckles like a map of his anger.

"Is that where these came from?" I ask, gesturing toward his hands. "Punching walls? Or punching people?"

He doesn't answer. But his silence tells me everything I need to know. He looks away, his gaze fixed on the window, on the city sprawling below us like a glittering carpet of lights. I watch his reflection in the glass—the hard line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way he seems to be carrying the weight of the world alone.

"Someone killed my brother, Serena." His voice is barely a whisper, rough with emotion. "And I'm going to find out who."

I meet his gaze, and something passes between us—a recognition, a shared understanding. I'm not just a nanny in this house. I'm a witness, a partner, someone who believes him when everyone else has told him he's crazy. I hold his gaze for a moment longer than I should, feeling the intensity of his attention like a physical weight. There's something in his eyes now that wasn't there before—a flicker of vulnerability, a crack in the armor he's built around himself. It makes my breath catch in my throat.

"Then let's find out together," I say.

Alexander stares at me for a long moment, his gray eyes searching mine. And then, slowly, he nods. His shoulders relax slightly, just a fraction, and I realize I've been holding my breath. The tension in the room shifts, transforms into something else—something I can't name. Something that feels like the beginning of trust.