The blinds are drawn, the carpet is worn, and the walls are covered in cheap wood-paneling. At the far end of the room is a hospital bed. Beside it sits a small steel stand, upon which rests a medical monitor and a pump attached to a breathing apparatus. Tubes run from the apparatus to the man lying in the bed: Benjamin Whitlock, the grandson of Theodore Whitlock.

The bed is inclined upwards, giving the illusion that he’s sitting up, but there’s no way he has the strength. I can see the outline of his frail and withered body under the sheets. The fine strands of hair on his head do nothing to hide his liver-spotted scalp. His eyes are small, bleary, and bloodshot, but they lock onto me as I step to the foot of the bed.

Dana comes over and gently takes his hand. “Pa-pa, this is Daniel Price. He left the message for you yesterday.”

I register a slight nod from the old man.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” I say.

“All right, Mr. Price,” Dana says. “What did you want to talk about?”

I’m about to launch into my story, but Mr. Whitlock gently pats Dana’s hand.

“Dana, can you please give us a few minutes alone?”

“But, Pa-pa—”

“It’ll be all right.”

She eyes me in confusion and mistrust, but respects her grandfather’s wishes and leaves his side.

“Press the button if you need anything,” she says. “Fifteen minutes,” she whispers to me before going into the hallway and closing the door.

Once she’s gone, the only sound in the room is the old man’s rhythmic labored breathing.

The corners of his lips lift slightly in what I think is a smile. “I can only assume you’re about to tell me some stuff my granddaughter, bless her, might not understand. Please, have a seat.” He indicates the wooden chair next to the bed. I accept and sit down. It creaks as it takes my weight. “Now, my granddaughter usually gives my guests fifteen minutes so as not to over excite me, but I’m not sure I even have fifteen minutes left, so you’d better hurry up.”

He starts to laugh, which sounds more like a quick succession of coughs.

“Well, again, thank you for seeing me,” I say.

“You from Kingsbrook?”

“Yes. I live in the Nightingale House.”

“How are you liking it?”

I don’t answer.

He shrugs his shoulders by raising them a fraction of an inch. “I figured. What is it you want to talk about?”

“You told your granddaughter to ask me something: ‘She still can’t sleep, can she?’ What did that mean?”

His sense of humor vanishes and he shakes his head. “You know damn well what I meant. Ask me what you called about in your message.”

I took a breath. “Your grandfather was the Carringtons’ butler, correct?”