Chapter 2 - Immediate Perimeter Check
The twin bassinets shook with the collective, ragged gasps of the infants, their little faces flushed pink from sustained distress. I didn't look back at the doctor or the nanny. My hand remained steady, though the skin over my knuckles felt tight as stretched drumskin. Two tiny red indicator lights blinked rhythmically from the shadowed recess of the lath and plaster, their mechanical pulse utterly indifferent to the warmth of the cream carpeting and the white-trimmed nursery.
"What is that?" I had whispered the words moments before, but the question now echoed silently in the heavy, perfumed air of the room.
Behind me, the low hum of the estate's central heating seemed suddenly distant. The bodyguard, a heavy-set man in a sharply tailored dark suit whose shoulder holster strained slightly against his jacket, stepped forward without waiting for an invitation. His heavy leather soles muffled slightly against the deep wool of the rug.
"Sir," the bodyguard murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he scanned the open wall cavity and then the hallway beyond the half-open door. "We need to secure the perimeter. Now."
"Lock the doors," I said, my voice low, stripped of any inflection. I reached down, my fingers finding the cold, smooth edges of the small plastic and metal unit nestled between two vertical studs. It was no larger than a deck of cards, held in place by a strip of heavy-duty industrial adhesive. "Nobody leaves this wing. Not the staff, not anyone."
The doctor, a man whose silver-rimmed glasses slid fractionally down the bridge of his nose as he stared at the floor, adjusted his white lab coat with a stiff, twitching motion of his thumb and forefinger. "Mr. Vance, surely you don't imply—this is an unwarranted precaution. The nursery is sanitized daily. The cleaning staff, the agency—we vetted everyone."
"You vetted the agency, Doctor," I said, my gaze shifting from the blinking red diodes to his pale, sweating forehead. "You didn't check behind the baseboards."
The nanny, standing stiffly in her black-and-white uniform beside the tall mahogany dresser, pulled the folds of her apron tight against her waist. Her knuckles were white. She didn't look at the bassinets, nor did she look at the hole in the wall. Her eyes were fixed on the patterned molding near the ceiling. "The children are overtired," she said, her voice trembling slightly around the edges of a carefully maintained composure. "The noise—they need to be moved to the guest suite."
"Nobody moves," the bodyguard interjected, stepping decisively between the nanny and the hallway entrance. His hand rested lightly, almost casually, against his right hip. "Mr. Vance gave an order. All doors are on hold. No phones, no transmissions out."
I curled my fingers around the edges of the electronic device. With a firm, sharp tug that tore the adhesive foam with a dry rip, I dislodged it from the timber frame. The blinking red lights didn't waver. I brought it up into the warm light of the nursery lamps, turning it over in my palm. There was no brand name, no serial number—just a matte-black casing pierced by a pinhole microphone and a micro-transmitter module. Someone had been listening to every breath, every rustle of silk, every whispered lullaby in this room for days, perhaps weeks.
"Check the windows," I told the bodyguard, handing the warm device over to him. He accepted it gingerly, his professional detachment slipping just enough for his jaw to tighten. "And check the exterior grounds beneath the nursery overhang. If there's a transmitter here, there's a receiver within five hundred yards."
"Understood," the bodyguard said, turning sharply on his heel. He didn't run, but his pace brooked no argument as he moved past the bassinets and out into the corridor.
I straightened up, my joints cracking slightly in the quiet room. The babies had quieted into exhausted, hiccuping whimpers, their small chests rising and falling in rhythm. Across the room, the young blonde girl in the cream-colored lace dress stood motionless by the window seat, still clutching her small rag doll by one frayed arm. She hadn't made a sound since she pressed her finger to her lips, her wide eyes reflecting the white-and-gold luxury of the nursery as if she were watching strangers in a play.
"Go with her," I said to the nanny, nodding toward the blonde girl. "Take her to the library. Stay there until I call for you."
May you like
The nanny hesitated, her eyes darting from me to the doctor, seeking an alliance that wasn't there. The doctor simply stared at the floor, his face drained of color. With a curt, trembling nod, the nanny placed a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder and guided her toward the heavy double doors, leaving the doctor and me alone in the center of the quiet room.
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