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“What?” My mouth dries up.

He inches closer until we’re breathing the same air once more. His intensity should scare me, but there must be something wrong with my brain because it only excites me.

“Do you want to know what happened to the last nanny I hired?” he asks.

I stare up at him as my heart beats out of control.

“She was a journalist who disguised herself as a nanny. It was right after the car accident. She came into my life because she wanted all the juicy gossip for the tabloids. She wanted to make money off my pain,” he says. “When I learned the truth, I did what I had to do. I got rid of her.”

I search his eyes. He’s not kidding.

“Did you...kill her?” I ask him.

“Worse,” he says. “I took the one thing from her that she loved the most. I made sure that her name would never show up on another article ever again.”

I see torment in the depths of his eyes. Blood and chains and war.

“I promise you I don’t have any bad intentions,” I say. “I was just curious.”

“About what?” he asks.

About you.

“Everyone here seems to know something I don’t,” I reply honestly. “And I thought that I would be able to do my job better if I knew more about this family.”

“You really expect me to believe that?” he asks.

“It’s the truth,” I say. “I keep hearing strange noises at night. Even when I’m alone in my room, I feel like I’m being watched. I know there must be some logical explanation for all of this.”

Something happened here. Something terrible happened to this family.

The diary gave me a glimpse into their lives, but it left me with more questions than answers.

Mr. Sinclair narrows his eyes at me, looking at me like he can read every thought in my head.

A few days ago, the visceral hatred on his face would have made me second-guess working for him. But right now, I see it for what it is—armor. Underneath the tough exterior, I suspect that there’s a world nobody even knows about.

Worse, I suspect it’s the same with the kids.

“You’re the help,” he says. “As the nanny, your job is to make sure that the kids do their homework and eat their vegetables. Don’t try to be anything more than you’re qualified for.Is that clear?”

“Loud and clear,” I reply.

He nods and steps away from me. He’s about to leave.

If I let him go now, I’ll never know the answers to the questions that have been eating at me.

“Sera was afraid of her husband,” I say. “She was afraid that he would kill her. Did he hurt the kids too?”

“Do you think this is some sort of book club?” he asks through gritted teeth. “The contents of my sister’s diary are not up for discussion.”

“I’m here to take care of the children,” I say. “That includes their physical and mental health, too.”

“Thechildrenhave regular sessions with a child therapist where they talk about their emotions,” he says.

“What about you?” I ask.

Some of the hardness dissipates from his face. He wasn’t expecting that.