Chapter 3 - WHAT THEIR MOTHER HAD BEEN LISTENING FOR
Celeste Moretti died twelve days after giving birth.
Not in childbirth.
That distinction mattered.
She survived the delivery.
She held Theo.
She laughed when Miles peed on a nurse.
She kissed Nora’s forehead.
Then twelve days later, she suffered a sudden pulmonary embolism at home.
One moment sitting in bed.
Next moment unable to breathe.
By the time the ambulance arrived, she was gone.
For seven months, I had accepted the cruelty of that sentence.
No conspiracy.
No murder.
No enemy.
A blood clot.
Now Dr. Gable stood in my hallway telling me Celeste had secretly placed listening equipment in the nursery.
I wanted to throw him through a wall.
Instead:
“Why?”
His voice shook.
“She was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“She never told me fully.”
I stepped closer.
“You were her doctor.”
“I was the babies’ pediatrician.”
“Then why would she involve you?”
He closed his eyes.
“Because she didn’t trust security.”
Marco stiffened.
I turned.
He looked furious.
Gable continued:
“She told me someone in the house was entering the nursery when she was sleeping.”
My chest tightened.
“When?”
“During the pregnancy.”
“The nursery wasn’t finished.”
“She spent time there anyway.”
Celeste had designed everything herself.
Paint.
Cribs.
Bookshelves.
Three ridiculous cloud-shaped lamps she insisted on importing from Denmark.
I remembered teasing her.
Then I remembered something else.
One night she asked whether Marco’s cameras covered every hallway.
I had laughed.
Of course they did.
She did not laugh back.
My stomach turned.
“What did she see?”
Gable answered:
“Things moved.”
Elena looked at me.
Same instinct she had.
Rooms remember.
Celeste had noticed.
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
Gable looked at the floor.
“She said you would turn the house upside down.”
“She was right.”
“And she didn’t know who she could trust.”
That hurt.
“She didn’t trust me?”
“She trusted you to react.”
Silence.
Not the same thing.
He continued.
“She wanted information before you started a war.”
That sounded painfully like Celeste.
Smart.
Patient.
Braver than people realized.
“Did she install the devices?”
“She asked me to arrange one legal audio monitor.”
“Legal?”
“It was her home and nursery.”
“Then why hidden?”
“She didn’t want whoever was entering to know.”
Marco asked:
“Three devices?”
Gable shook his head.
“One.”
There.
The room changed.
“One?”
“One microphone behind the west vent.”
“No speakers?”
“No.”
“No remote audio playback?”
“No.”
“Then somebody modified it.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
My jaw tightened.
“And the other devices?”
“I’ve never seen them.”
Marco looked at investigators.
Now we had original equipment altered later.
Someone took Celeste’s surveillance idea and weaponized it against our children.
I asked:
“Why didn’t you tell me after she died?”
Gable’s face collapsed.
“She made me promise.”
I laughed bitterly.
“She was dead.”
“I know.”
“Her children were alive.”
“I know.”
“And you kept a hidden microphone in their nursery for seven months.”
“I disabled the account.”
“Apparently not well.”
He looked sick.
“I thought it was inactive.”
“Why were your credentials used tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
Marco answered:
“Someone had them.”
Dr. Gable froze.
“Who?”
That was the question.
Gable’s assistant?
Hospital IT?
Someone in the house?
Or someone Celeste herself trusted.
The original audio archive became more important.
Police specialists extracted recordings.
Most were boring.
Construction workers.
Celeste speaking with decorators.
Nannies preparing supplies before birth.
Then one file stopped everyone.
Date:
Three weeks before delivery.
Celeste’s voice.
Another woman.
Bianca.
My older sister.
I felt cold.
They were arguing.
Celeste said:
“I know what I saw.”
Bianca answered:
“You’re eight months pregnant and barely sleeping.”
There it was.
Dismissal.
Celeste:
“Do not do that.”
Bianca:
“I’m not.”
Celeste:
“You’re making me sound unstable.”
My chest tightened.
Bianca:
“I’m saying stress changes perception.”
Then Celeste said:
“Someone was under Theo’s crib.”
Silence.
Bianca’s voice sharpened.
“What?”
“I came in at two in the morning.”
“What did you see?”
“A man.”
“Who?”
“He ran through the service hall.”
“Did you call Adrien?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if Adrien thinks one of the crews got inside, someone gets killed before breakfast.”
I closed my eyes.
She knew me.
Too well.
Bianca lowered her voice.
“Then tell Marco.”
“I don’t trust Marco’s logs.”
Marco went rigid.
I looked at him.
He looked wounded.
Not angry.
The recording continued.
Celeste:
“Every time I ask who came through the service entrance, there’s no record.”
Bianca:
“Maybe because nobody did.”
Celeste:
“Or somebody can alter records.”
Marco whispered:
“Jesus.”
Then Celeste said a name.
“Vincent.”
Everything in me stopped.
Vincent Moretti.
My uncle.
My father’s younger brother.
Sixty-one.
Semi-retired.
Still influential.
A man who bounced me on his knee when I was five.
A man who attended Celeste’s funeral.
A man who held Theo during the baptism.
Bianca’s voice on the recording went quiet.
“Why Vincent?”
“I saw his ring.”
The family ring.
Heavy gold.
Black stone.
My uncle wore it every day.
Then the audio ended.
Marco looked at me.
“Boss.”
I raised a hand.
No.
Not yet.
Proof first.
I called Bianca.
She answered sleepy.
“Adrien?”
“Come to the house.”
“What happened?”
“Now.”
She heard my voice.
“Is it the babies?”
“They’re safe.”
Pause.
“I’m coming.”
Bianca arrived forty minutes later.
No makeup.
Coat over pajamas.
She saw Gable.
Police.
Open nursery vent.
Her face changed.
“Oh God.”
“You knew.”
She looked at me.
“About what?”
“Celeste’s recording.”
Bianca closed her eyes.
“You found it.”
That answer hurt.
“You knew she suspected Vincent.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because she wasn’t sure.”
“She was dead a month later.”
“From an embolism.”
“I know how my wife died.”
My voice rose.
Theo cried from the guest room.
I stopped instantly.
That sound.
My anger was already affecting the house.
Again.
I lowered my voice.
Bianca continued:
“I confronted Vincent.”
I froze.
“You what?”
“After Celeste died.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He denied everything.”
“Did you believe him?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Because I searched.”
She looked at Marco.
“His movements. Drivers. Calls.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not security.”
“No.”
She gave me a sad smile.
“And that was exactly why nobody noticed.”
That was irritatingly good.
Bianca found Vincent had visited Rowan? no Moretti estate? He had been at the estate the night Celeste saw someone.
Officially for dinner.
Left at eleven.
Could have returned through service route.
But no proof.
Then Bianca found something stranger.
Vincent had been speaking often with one of Celeste’s prenatal nurses.
Why?
Unknown.
The nurse left Chicago after Celeste’s death.
I looked at Gable.
“You knew?”
“No.”
Bianca continued:
“I thought maybe Celeste’s fear was connected to something else.”
“What else?”
She hesitated.
“Your father’s estate.”
I stared.
My father died two years earlier.
His trust allocated legitimate Moretti assets partly to future grandchildren.
Triplets changed inheritance proportions.
Vincent’s branch lost influence when three new heirs were born.
My stomach turned.
“Money?”
Bianca shook her head.
“Control.”
Worse.
Voting rights.
Family holdings.
If I had children, certain shares moved from Vincent’s line.
Celeste knew.
Vincent knew.
But still—
That did not explain frightening babies.
Unless someone wanted me convinced the nursery was unsafe.
Or the children medically unstable.
Or me incapable of managing them.
Then Sophie walked in holding her doll.
Elena followed.
Sophie looked at Bianca.
Then at the photograph of Vincent now on Marco’s tablet.
Her face changed.
“What?”
Elena asked.
Sophie pointed.
“That man.”
Every adult froze.
I crouched.
“What about him?”
Sophie looked at Elena.
Her mother nodded cautiously.
“I saw him.”
My blood went cold.
“Where?”
Sophie pointed toward the service staircase.
“Last week.”
“When?”
“Mommy was cleaning the shiny room.”
The ballroom.
Elena frowned.
“Sophie, Uncle Vincent doesn’t live here.”
“I know.”
“Did he talk to you?”
Sophie nodded.
“What did he say?”
The little girl hugged her doll.
“He asked where the babies sleep.”
Silence.
Then:
“And he gave me candy.”
Elena went white.
“I told you not to take candy from people.”
“I didn’t.”
Sophie looked offended.
“I threw it in the plant.”
Despite everything, Bianca almost laughed.
I did not.
Marco was already moving.
“Check service footage.”
Then remembered.
Logs could be altered.
This time they checked external street cameras.
Neighbor security.
Traffic cameras.
One image.
Vincent’s car.
Two blocks from my house.
Nine days ago.
At 1:14 p.m.
The same afternoon Sophie remembered seeing him.
Marco stared.
“He lied about being here.”
I felt something inside me turn cold.
Then police called with another result.
One of the newly added nursery devices carried a partial fingerprint.
Not Vincent’s.
A woman’s.
Elena’s face tightened.
“Whose?”
The detective looked toward the nannies.
Then at me.
“Your night nanny.”
Camille.
The woman who had been holding Nora during the screaming.
The woman who discovered that Nora calmed down outside the room.
The woman who had looked just as frightened as everyone else.
Camille began crying before police even approached her.
And when she finally spoke, she did not say Vincent forced her.
She said something much worse.
“Mrs. Moretti asked me to do it.”
I stared.
“My wife is dead.”
Camille sobbed.
“I know.”
Then:
May you like
“I mean your mother.”
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