Chapter 2 - The House That Listened
Vincent moved without making a sound. He opened a drawer, removed a small black notebook, and wrote: DO NOT REACT. THERE ARE CAMERAS WE DID NOT INSTALL.
I looked at the decorative brass vent above the dining room door. Something tiny glinted behind its slats. My years cleaning expensive houses had taught me to notice screws that didn't match and dust that had been disturbed. The vent's lower screw was newer than the others.
I kept my expression blank.
"I'm going upstairs," I announced loudly enough for anyone outside to hear. "He needs rest."
Vincent read my lips imperfectly, then nodded.
I carried the covered bowl against my chest. We crossed the foyer beneath a chandelier so large it looked like a frozen waterfall. Two guards stood at the staircase. One, a broad man named Marco, glanced at the blood on Vincent's shirt. The other stared at my hands.
In my bedroom, Vincent pulled the curtains and wrote: THE GARDEN ROOM HAS NO NETWORK CONNECTION. MEET ME THERE IN TEN MINUTES.
I waited until he left. Then I wrapped the object in a clean towel, put it inside a metal tea tin, and tucked it beneath my sweater. I had no scientific explanation for the blinking light, but I didn't want it communicating with anything in the house.
The garden room was a glass conservatory filled with lemon trees and winter roses. Snow brushed against the panes. Vincent waited beside an old wooden table, looking exhausted.
He wrote: I THINK ADRIAN HAS BEEN LYING TO ME FOR YEARS.
I asked about the childhood accident. Vincent's jaw tightened. He had fallen from a staircase when he was eleven. His right ear had never fully recovered. After a warehouse explosion six years ago, his remaining hearing had worsened dramatically. Dr. Kessler told him the damage was permanent.
"But the object?" I asked.
Vincent wrote: I DON'T KNOW. I HAVE NO MEMORY OF ANY PROCEDURE.
I told him about the mismatched screw in the vent and the way Adrian watched the bowl. Vincent took my hand briefly, then let go, as if he were reminding himself that even comfort required permission.
A soft knock came from the glass door. Marco stood outside. Vincent opened it a crack.
Marco signed rapidly with his hands. I understood none of it. Vincent answered with sharp, economical gestures. Marco's expression changed.
After he left, Vincent wrote: MARCO IS LOYAL. HE SAYS ADRIAN ORDERED ALL THE CAMERAS SERVICED LAST MONTH.
"Can we go to a hospital?"
KESSLER CONTROLS MY MEDICAL RECORDS. I NEED SOMEONE OUTSIDE HIS NETWORK.
I thought of the free clinic where I had once cleaned floors after midnight. A physician there, Dr. Naomi Reed, had treated my burned hand without charging me. She was blunt, careful, and impossible to intimidate with an expensive watch.
I gave Vincent her name.
He studied it, then wrote: WE WILL GO AT DAWN. NO SECURITY CONVOY.
"And if Adrian follows?"
Vincent looked through the glass at the snow-covered courtyard. He wrote one more sentence.
THEN WE WILL LEARN WHO HE WORKS FOR.
I didn't sleep that night. At three in the morning, someone tested my bedroom doorknob. The lock held. I watched a shadow linger beneath the door before disappearing.
May you like
At dawn, a plain delivery van rolled out of the Moretti estate. I sat beside Vincent in the back, clutching the tea tin while Marco drove. For the first time since my wedding, the mansion gates opened for me without an armed escort.
And for the first time, I was afraid of what might be waiting outside rather than inside.
