One evening during dinner Felicia leaned toward me and said, “She sits in the nursery in the dark for hours. It is strange behavior, Trevor. You never know what kind of people you invite into your home.” I frowned but dismissed it. Grace had been gentle with the babies, especially Isaiah. His screaming softened whenever she held him. Still, seeds of suspicion were planted, watered by grief and sleeplessness.
A week later, I hired a security firm to install discreet cameras throughout the penthouse. They were small, silent, nearly invisible. I told myself it was for safety, for the twins, for peace of mind. I did not tell Grace about them. I did not tell Felicia either. I simply watched the technicians drill and wire and test while telling myself that knowledge was protection. For two weeks I did not look at the footage. Work demanded my attention, and the house remained quiet enough.
Then one stormy night, thunder rolling over the bay, I woke unable to breathe. I reached for my tablet and opened the security application. The nursery camera came alive in soft gray night vision. Grace sat on the floor between the two cribs. She was not asleep. She held Isaiah against her bare chest, skin to skin, wrapped in a blanket. She swayed slowly, humming a tune that curled through the microphone. My heart lurched because I recognized the melody. It was Brielle’s private song. No recording of it existed. No sheet music. Only memory.
Grace whispered to Isaiah, “You are safe, little heart. Your mother sang this for you before the world turned dark.” My eyes burned, but the feed shifted to something worse. The nursery door opened. Felicia entered quietly, holding a small glass dropper and a baby bottle.
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