Chapter 2 - Shadows on the MonitorThree hours later, the house was supposed to be asleep.
I sat alone in my subterranean home office, surrounded by multiple computer monitors displaying live feeds of the entire estate. The walls were lined with biometric security systems, bulletproof glass specifications, and encrypted financial spreadsheets. Yet, my eyes were glued to a single, small window in the corner of the primary screen: the interior infrared camera of the nursery.
Elise hadn't gone back to sleep.
Once I left the room, she had carefully removed the rubber gloves, curled up in the oversized armchair in the corner of the nursery, and pulled a fleece blanket over her shoulders. She wasn't scrolling on a phone or reading a novel. She was watching the twins breathe, her eyes tracking the rise and fall of their tiny chests with an intensity that bordered on obsessive.
Who is she really? I thought, my fingers tapping rhythmically against the mahogany desk.
When I hired Elise Navarro two weeks ago, my head of private security ran a standard background check. Clean record. Normal upbringing in a modest suburb two hours north. Graduated top of her class, worked at a local gallery, applied for the nanny position after the gallery burned down under suspicious circumstances.
Wait. Burned down?
I leaned closer to the monitor, my cursor hovering over her digital file. The security report mentioned a minor electrical fire at the "Aethel Art Gallery" three months ago. No injuries, fully insured, investigation closed. But something about the timing—three months ago, right before she applied for the highest-paying, most notoriously difficult nanny job in the city—felt entirely too convenient.
Suddenly, a sharp, piercing beep echoed through the office.
Warning: Perimeter Breach. Sector 4 - West Gate.
My blood ran cold. Sector 4 was the secluded service entrance hidden behind the dense oak trees, rarely used except by our grocery deliveries or landscaping crew. At 5:15 a.m., no one should be anywhere near it.
I switched the main monitor to the West Gate camera feed.
A sleek, unmarked black sedan was idling just outside the heavy wrought-iron gates. The headlights were cut, blending seamlessly into the pre-dawn darkness. As I watched, a figure stepped out of the passenger side, wearing a dark tactical jacket and a baseball cap pulled low. The person didn't try the keypad. Instead, they reached into their jacket, pulled out a small, heavy-duty electronic device, and attached it directly to the gate's digital control box.
Sparks flew in a brief, silent flash of blue light.
The heavy iron gates groaned and slowly swung inward.
My hand dropped instinctively to the loaded Beretta resting in the open desk drawer. The corporate enemies I made climbing to the top of the tech and shipping industries were numerous, but none of them knew about this safehouse estate—except for one person.
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The man I testified against in federal court six months ago: Victor Vance. And if Vance’s men had found me, they wouldn't just be coming for me.
They would be coming for the nursery.
