Chapter 3 - THE SECRET IN THE SEAMS
By the third week, Clara had established a rhythm that defied the dark, paranoid energy of the estate. Yet, Vincent’s paranoia was a creature that never slept. He began noticing subtle oddities that his security team missed.
Clara never carried a handbag into Matteo’s room; she only brought her worn leather tote. But every day at precisely 2:15 PM, while Matteo rested, she would stand near the window, open her tote, and carefully inspect a small, leather-bound notebook. She never wrote in it while Matteo was looking. She would study a page, close it, and slip it into a hidden zippered lining inside her trench coat.
Furthermore, Vincent’s security chief, Dominic, brought him a red flag from the perimeter sweeps.
“Boss,” Dominic said, placing a satellite signal trace report on Vincent’s desk. “We picked up an encrypted cellular burst coming from the west wing at 2:20 PM yesterday. It used a dynamic frequency hopper—military grade. It lasted four seconds.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed. “Where was Clara Hayes at 2:20 PM?”
“In the boy’s room. Near the window.”
Vincent’s vision turned to red. The mafia syndicate was currently in the middle of a delicate, blood-soaked turf war with the Moretti family—the very rivals suspected of planting the car bomb that killed his wife and paralyzed Matteo. If Clara was an insider paid by Moretti to monitor the estate's internal layout or map security blind spots, she was the most dangerous threat he had ever allowed past his gates.
“Do we eliminate her?” Dominic asked, his hand resting on the holster beneath his tailored coat.
“No,” Vincent growled, his voice dripping with ice. “If she’s working for Moretti, killing her just alerts them that we know. We wait. We watch. I want to see what she does when she thinks she has what she came for.”
That afternoon, Vincent sat in front of monitor four, watching her like a hawk.
Clara was sitting on the floor next to Matteo’s wheelchair. Matteo was building a tower out of wooden blocks. It was the first time in fourteen months the boy had touched a toy. Clara was handing him blocks one by one, her expression soft, almost maternal.
Is it an act? Vincent thought, his knuckles white as he gripped the desk. How can someone look at a broken child with that much gentleness while plotting to sell his father out to murderers?
Suddenly, Clara paused. She glanced toward the hallway door, then reached into her jacket pocket. She pulled out a small, metallic object no larger than a key fob. She pressed a button.
On Vincent’s master control console, monitor four flickered with static for two seconds before stabilizing.
Dominic gasped, drawing his weapon. “She’s jamming local telemetry! She knows how to manipulate electronics!”
“Stay here,” Vincent ordered, his voice terrifyingly calm. He reached into his drawer, pulled out a matte-black suppressed pistol, and chambered a round. “If I call down, secure the perimeter. Nobody leaves this house alive.”
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Vincent stepped out of the control room and walked silently up the concrete stairwell toward the residential wing. His heart hammered against his ribs—not out of fear for himself, but out of a dark, despairing rage. He had allowed himself to believe, even for a moment, that this woman was saving his son.
If she was a snake, he was going to crush her head himself.
