Chapter 3 - THE DUST ON THE MONITORS
Moving into the Maro estate felt like stepping into a gilded cage designed by an architect who hated light. The house was a three-story Greek Revival mansion built in the 1850s, filled with priceless antiques, heavy velvet drapery, and a silence so thick you could hear the grandfather clock ticking from three rooms away.
My suite was located in the east wing, connected directly to the nursery by a short, carpeted hallway. It was larger than my entire apartment, complete with a private bath, a king-sized bed, and fresh white lilies delivered to the vanity every morning.
For the first three days, I focused entirely on the children.
Theo, Elias, and Camille were hyper-vigilant. They didn't act like normal eight-month-old infants. They rarely babbled or made noise unless I was in the room. Whenever a door slammed downstairs or a staff member walked past their door, all three babies would instantly freeze, their eyes darting toward the corners of the ceiling.
It took me forty-eight hours to realize why.
On Thursday afternoon, while the triplets were taking their nap, I sat on the plush rocking chair in the nursery, holding a dusting rag. Antoine was down at the docks handling a union dispute, and the house was exceptionally quiet.
I looked up at the ceiling. In each of the four corners of the nursery sat a state-of-the-art digital baby monitor with night-vision lenses. They were sleek, black, and blinked with steady green power lights.
I stood on a wooden step stool to wipe a cobweb near the crown molding. As my rag brushed against the camera in the north corner, I noticed something strange.
The lens was completely dust-free, but the housing bracket behind it had fresh scratch marks, as if someone had recently used a screwdriver to tilt the camera downward.
I walked over to the south camera. Same thing. Fresh scratches on the mounting brackets.
I reached up and lightly touched the back of the device. It was burning hot to the touch.
As a woman who spent years working late shifts in bad neighborhoods, I knew a little about security systems. Standard baby monitors connected to a local router shouldn't be running hot enough to scorch dust unless they were constantly transmitting a high-definition raw video feed to an off-site, external server.
Someone wasn't just monitoring the babies for their safety. Someone was streaming their every move twenty-four hours a day.
I stepped down from the stool, my pulse quickening.
I left the nursery and walked down the wide oak hallway toward Antoine’s private study. I didn't knock; I simply pushed the door open.
Donovan was standing by the window, speaking quietly into a encrypted satellite phone. He froze the moment he saw me, instantly hanging up.
“Miss Marsh,” Donovan said, his voice cold and even. “Mr. Maro is currently out of the office. You should be in the nursery.”
“Who manages the internal security network for this house?” I asked, keeping my voice steady and firm.
Donovan crossed his arms. His broad shoulders filled his dark jacket. “A private firm out of Metairie. Maro Enterprises owns the contract. Why?”
“Because someone has modified the feed in the children’s room,” I said, stepping further into the room. “The cameras aren't connected to the house’s central security hub. They’re running on a separate, hardwired bridge that bypasses your main server.”
Donovan’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “How do you know that?”
“Because I might be a waitress, Mr. Donovan, but I’m not stupid. I spent three years setting up network infrastructure for a logistics warehouse before the company downsized. Those cameras are pulling thirty gigabytes of data an hour. Where is that data going?”
Before Donovan could answer, heavy footsteps echoed from the corridor. Antoine walked into the study, pulling off his leather driving gloves. He took in the tense atmosphere instantly.
“What’s happening?” Antoine demanded, his dark eyes shifting between me and his head of security.
“Miss Marsh thinks she’s a security technician,” Donovan said gruffly.
“I know your children are being watched by someone who isn't in this house,” I corrected sharply, turning to face Antoine. “Come look for yourself.”
Antoine didn't hesitate. He followed me straight back up to the nursery. I pointed out the warm housing, the fresh scratch marks on the brass mounts, and the thin, hidden fiber-optic cable snaking through a micro-hole in the plaster ceiling.
Antoine’s face hardened into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He reached up, grabbed the black camera with his bare hand, and violently ripped it out of the wall, tearing plaster and wires with it.
“Donovan!” Antoine roared.
Donovan appeared in the doorway, his face pale. “Boss, I swear, our team swept this room two weeks ago—”
“Get Julian up here right now,” Antoine growled, his voice vibrating through the floorboards. “If there is an unauthorized line in my house, someone on our payroll helped lay it.”
Ten minutes later, Julian—Antoine’s chief IT specialist, a thin man in his late twenties with nervous hands—was on his knees in the nursery closet, tracing the hidden fiber-optic line with an electronic scanner.
I stood near the cribs, softly humming to the babies to keep them calm amidst the intrusion. Elias had his thumb in his mouth, clutching the hem of my skirt.
“Well?” Antoine snapped, pacing the room like a caged panther.
Julian looked up, sweat glistening on his forehead. “Boss... this wire doesn't go down to the main security room in the basement.”
“Where does it go?”
“It goes up,” Julian whispered, pointing toward the ceiling. “To the third-floor attic. The old storage rooms.”
The third floor was off-limits. Antoine had explicitly instructed me on my first day that the attic rooms were sealed, holding his late wife’s personal belongings, old furniture, and archived family records.
Antoine drew a heavy black pistol from his shoulder holster without a word. Donovan pulled his own weapon, stepping in front.
“Della, stay here with the children,” Antoine ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Lock the door behind us.”
“No,” I said instantly.
Antoine stopped, turning to glare at me. “Excuse me?”
“You hired me to protect these children,” I said, picking up Camille and holding her securely against my hip while keeping my eyes locked on his. “If there’s someone living above their bedroom, I am not staying down here like a sitting duck. I’m coming with you, or I’m taking these babies out to my car right now.”
Antoine stared at me for three long seconds. A flash of dark amusement—and something dangerously close to admiration—passed through his eyes.
“Keep close behind Donovan,” he growled, turning toward the door. “And keep your head down.”
We moved up the narrow, creaking wooden stairs that led to the third floor. The air grew colder, thick with the smell of old dust, cedar chests, and stale humidity.
At the top of the stairs sat a heavy oak door secured with a brass padlock.
Except the padlock wasn't locked. It was hanging loose from the latch.
Donovan kicked the door open, his gun raised. “Federal agents! Hands where I can see them!”
The attic was pitch black save for the eerie blue glow of four computer monitors set up on a folding plastic table in the center of the room.
The room was completely empty of people, but the screens were alive with activity.
One monitor displayed a live quad-feed of the nursery down below—showing the three empty cribs and the rocking chair where I had been sitting minutes ago.
Another screen showed a running ledger of bank transactions, green numbers flashing rapidly as automated scripts executed wire transfers.
And the third monitor showed a high-resolution, zoomed-in photograph of me.
It was a picture taken three days ago at the diner. My name, my social security number, my home address, and my deceased daughter’s medical records were displayed on the screen under a bold red header: SUBJECT OF INTEREST - REMOVAL REQUIRED.
My breath hitched in my throat.
Antoine stepped up to the desk, his face lethal. He looked at the bank ledger running on the central screen.
“These aren't my accounts,” Antoine whispered, his voice dangerously quiet. “These are Isabella’s offshore trusts.”
“Boss,” Julian said, pointing his flashlight at a framed photograph sitting right beside the monitors.
It was a picture of Isabella Maro, smiling on a yacht in St. Barts. But stuck to the glass with a piece of black duct tape was a handwritten note written in dark blue ink.
I recognized the handwriting instantly. It matched the signature on the NICU volunteer logs from the hospital.
Antoine reached out with a trembling hand and picked up the note. He read it aloud, his voice barely more than a ragged whisper:
“If you are reading this, Antoine, I am already dead. Do not trust the family. Do not trust the shipping lines. Look inside the red velvet box beneath the floorboards of the crib. They didn't just want my money... they want the children.”
May you like
Antoine turned his head slowly to look at me, the paper crumpled in his fist.
Downstairs, the heavy wrought-iron front gates of the estate suddenly screeched open, followed by the sound of three black SUVs driving violently up the gravel driveway.
