Chapter 3: Night Watch and Hidden Dangers

Then he turned and left. His footsteps echoed down the hall, and suddenly the room felt twice as empty.

The next day, I got a huge check in a plain envelope, my name scrawled on it in elegant handwriting. No note, just a check—like it was pocket change. I wondered if it was a bonus for being diligent, or maybe hazard pay for almost taking out the boss with a baseball bat. Either way, I slipped it into my bag and added "guard the check" to my nightly routine. I hid it in my sock drawer and checked every night to make sure it was still there. After all, it was a bearer check—anyone could cash it. I kept it closer than my own heartbeat.

Other than that, the so-called doting Mrs. Whitaker never showed up. Her absence was a shadow in the house. The staff tiptoed around, like even saying her name too loud might get them fired.

Because I’m a sucker for gossip, I got the scoop from the security guard at the front gate. He leaned in, voice low, like we were sharing state secrets: Mrs. Whitaker’s eldest son was about to come back from New York, and she was busy prepping his brownstone. Too busy to drop by, apparently.

As for the rest of the Whitaker clan? Not even a whisper. The house was full of empty rooms and echoes. Sometimes I wondered if I was the only one who noticed.

"Doesn’t he need company more than ever now?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe, nodding toward Julian’s closed bedroom door.

The security guard just shrugged, taking a drag from his cigarette. The tip glowed in the dusk. "That’s how it is with folks like them," he said. "They say he’s the most spoiled rich kid, but now that he’s out of it, it’s not surprising he’s left behind."

He flicked his ash, eyes distant. I wondered how many dramas he’d seen from that little booth out front.

The doctor checked on Julian every morning, like clockwork. The guy was as punctual as a Swiss watch, always at the door at eight sharp, clipboard in hand. The routine never changed.

Other than that, the mansion was quiet as a tomb most of the time. The only sounds were the grandfather clock ticking and the distant hum of traffic from Lake Shore Drive. Even the birds seemed to sing softer here.

The other seventeen caregivers kept to themselves, but at night, after everyone else went to bed, I—the lucky mascot—had to keep watch. The others swapped shifts and stories, but my gig was solo. I became a shadow in Julian’s room, practically part of the furniture.

What can I say? When you’re too “special,” you get trusted with the tough jobs. Some nights, I tried to convince myself I’d earned it. Other nights, I just felt lonely.

Mrs. Whitaker paid me double what the other caregivers got, but I had to stay glued to Julian’s side twenty-four/seven. I barely drank water, afraid to risk that paycheck. I rationed my sips, counting the hours till sunrise. My bladder became my best friend.

Daytime was fine. The sun made everything feel lighter. Someone was always passing through—a nurse, a housekeeper, a delivery guy with groceries. If I couldn’t hold it anymore, I’d chat up whoever came in, just to keep from losing my mind. Even the UPS guy became my therapist.

But at night, the mansion was dead silent. The other caregivers had rooms downstairs, but I was stuck here all night. The darkness pressed in from every corner, and the only light was Julian’s bedside lamp, throwing long shadows on the wall.

Mrs. Whitaker said playing with my phone would give off radiation and harm her precious son. She was strict about it—I had to leave my phone in a lockbox outside the room. No scrolling through TikTok at 2 a.m. for me. I just stared at the ceiling, counted cracks, then glanced at the “Sleeping Beauty” in bed.

But—after a week of this, I realized no one ever showed up at night. My thoughts started wandering. Boredom is a dangerous thing. I started wondering just how unconscious Julian really was.

I looked at the unconscious Julian, then glanced at the tightly closed door. I made sure the security camera’s little red light was off. Just in case. My conscience and curiosity had a showdown, and curiosity won.

In a flash, I reached out and pinched his face. His cheek was soft, warmer than I expected. I half-expected him to open his eyes and yell at me. Not everyone gets to pinch the face of Chicago’s most notorious rich kid. I grinned, feeling a little thrill. If anyone asked, I’d deny everything.

Dang, it felt good. So I pinched him again—a little harder this time. A faint red mark popped up on his cheek. I yanked my hand back, worried someone would notice in the morning.

I glanced around, half-expecting Mrs. Whitaker to burst in, shrieking about bruises on her precious son. But just as I did, Julian lifted his hand. My heart skipped a beat. Was he waking up? Was I about to get canned?

“Oh, crap, he’s waking up!” I nearly fell off my stool. Should I play dead or confess?

His movement nearly made my knees buckle. I gripped the bed, trying not to panic. My hands were sweating.

Remembering the doctor’s instructions, I hit the call button so hard it nearly broke. The bell echoed through the house, my pulse thundering in my ears.

Then I saw Julian—still eyes closed—lower his hand, tuck it behind his neck, and… scratch. He let out a little sigh, like he was just getting comfy. I almost laughed in relief.

He was… scratching an itch? Can an unresponsive patient scratch an itch? Or was he about to wake up, thanks to my “care”? I stared at the red mark on his face, praying he wouldn’t wake up—not while I was caught red-handed. I imagined the headline: "Caregiver Fired for Assaulting Heir." Not exactly the legacy I wanted.

The doctor lived in the guesthouse out back, so it took him ten minutes to get there. After I hit the bell, he FaceTimed me, hair sticking up, pajama shirt all askew. "What happened?" he barked.

With trembling fingers, I pointed at Julian, still scratching his face with his eyes closed. "He, he, he…" My voice shook. The phone camera was shaking like a leaf. The doctor’s face went pale—I think I scared him. I could hear him running down the hall, phone bouncing. "What’s wrong with him?"

"He… he just moved," I finally blurted out. The doctor, who’d sounded so freaked, suddenly stopped and sounded both helpless and a little amused. "That’s it?" His tone made me feel like a kid reporting monsters under the bed.

"What else?" I shot back, still half convinced something supernatural was happening. An unresponsive patient moved. Isn’t that scary?

The doctor sounded exasperated. "Sometimes patients like this move unconsciously. It’s normal." I could hear him muttering about "rookie caregivers" as he hung up. So, that was his excuse for being a rascal?

I looked down at the hand on my waist. Just now, when I called, the hand that had been scratching his neck suddenly reached out and grabbed my waist. And he pinched—twice. Like he was getting back at me for pinching his face.

But since the doctor said it was fine, I tried not to overthink it. I told myself, "Don’t be dramatic, Emily." So I tried to pry his hand off. Even if it was just a reflex, he was still making my job harder. If it weren’t for that fat paycheck, I’d have smacked him.

But his grip was like a vise. He just wouldn’t let go, no matter how hard I tried. Losing a tug-of-war to a guy in a coma—kind of embarrassing, honestly. I glanced at the door, praying no one would walk in and see me wrestling with a patient.

"Julian, seriously? Can’t you just lie still if you’re out of it?" I gritted my teeth, trying to sound tough. He pinched me again. I really couldn’t take it. So I slapped the back of his hand, hard. The pale skin turned red instantly. Finally, he let go. I massaged my waist, shooting him a dirty look. "Unconscious, my butt."

But I didn’t expect that little incident to come back to bite me. The next morning, as I was dozing by the bed, someone grabbed me by the back of my neck. Mrs. Whitaker stood behind me, looking furious, her nails digging into my arm. She must’ve just had her nails done—sharp and pointy. It hurt like hell.

I bit my tongue, trying not to yelp. Not the time to make a scene. But I couldn’t complain. She was my boss.

"Julian moved last night?" Her voice was sharp, her eyes boring into mine, looking for any sign I was lying. She glanced at Julian, but he was as out of it as ever. She hovered by his bed, smoothing his blanket, lips pressed tight.

So I told her everything the doctor said, trying to sound as calm and casual as possible. I even added, "He’s a blessed kid. He’ll definitely wake up soon." I gave her my best reassuring smile, hoping she’d buy it.