Chapter 1 - The Camera Faye Thought Was DeadFaye Hale believed the kitchen camera had been dead for three days.
That was why she stopped pretending.
One-year-old Miles sat strapped into his high chair with tears pouring down his round cheeks. Oatmeal covered his mouth, chin, bib, and the front of his little blue shirt.
Every time the spoon came toward him, he twisted his head away.
“Eat.”
Miles cried harder.
Faye scraped another spoonful from the bowl.
“Stop it.”
He turned again.
The spoon hit his cheek.
Oatmeal smeared across his skin.
Faye's jaw tightened.
“I said eat!”
She pushed the spoon forward again.
Miles shoved his face toward his shoulder.
Then—
SLAP.
The sound was quick.
Not hard enough to knock him from the chair.
Hard enough to shock him.
Miles froze for half a second.
Then screamed.
His tiny hands opened and closed helplessly.
Faye stared at him without sympathy.
“Eat, you little bastard.”
Footsteps thundered down the hallway.
Eleven-year-old Dean appeared in the doorway.
His face changed when he saw his brother.
“AUNT FAYE!”
Faye turned.
“Stop yelling.”
“Don't hit him!”
“I didn't hit him.”
“I saw you!”
“You saw nothing.”
Dean rushed toward Miles.
Faye stepped between them.
“Go back upstairs.”
“No.”
“Dean.”
“Dad said I'm supposed to stay with Miles.”
Faye laughed.
“Your father says a lot of things.”
Dean's eyes moved toward the black security camera above the refrigerator.
“Dad will know.”
Faye followed his gaze.
Then smiled.
“That thing is dead.”
Dean said nothing.
Faye leaned closer.
“Dead.”
She had unplugged the home's internet router that morning.
At least, she thought that was enough.
“And you two won't be here much longer anyway.”
Dean's expression changed.
“What?”
Faye picked up the bowl again.
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Go upstairs.”
“What do you mean we're not going to be here?”
Faye's irritation became amusement.
Children were easy to frighten.
Especially children already afraid of losing things.
Their mother had been dead eleven months.
Marshall traveled constantly for work.
Dean had learned that adults could disappear.
Faye knew exactly where to press.
“After this house is sold, your father won't be able to bring you back even if he wants to.”
Dean stared at her.
“Dad isn't selling the house.”
Faye smiled.
“That's what you think.”
She turned toward the sink.
Dean looked again at the camera.
His father had shown him something months earlier.
A tiny button beneath the casing.
“If the Wi-Fi goes down,” Marshall had explained, “the camera can still use backup cellular. But somebody has to wake it manually if the battery saver kicks in.”
Faye didn't know that.
Dean did.
He waited until her back was turned.
Then dragged a chair beneath the camera.
Climbed.
Reached.
CLICK.
A tiny blue light appeared.
Dean's heart pounded.
Faye turned.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Get down.”
Three miles away from downtown Nashville, Marshall Hale was standing inside a conference room when his phone vibrated.
KITCHEN CAMERA — LIVE CONNECTION RESTORED.
He almost ignored it.
Then he heard Miles screaming through his earbuds.
Marshall opened the feed.
The image appeared.
Dean.
Faye.
Miles crying in the high chair.
Oatmeal everywhere.
And Faye's voice.
“After this house is sold, your father won't be able to bring you back even if he wants to.”
Marshall stopped breathing.
The men around the conference table continued discussing a hotel acquisition.
Marshall heard none of it.
He touched the microphone icon.
His voice exploded through the kitchen speaker.
“WHO IS SELLING MY HOUSE?”
Faye froze.
Dean stared up at the camera.
Miles continued crying.
For three seconds, nobody moved.
Then Faye looked toward the laptop sitting open on the kitchen table.
Dean followed her eyes.
So did Marshall through the camera.
The screen was visible.
A document portal.
A large heading:
CLOSING DOCUMENTS — FINAL SIGNATURE
Below it:
PROPERTY: 1847 WILLOW CREST ROAD
Marshall's address.
His home.
He stepped closer to his phone screen.
“Faye.”
She reached toward the laptop.
“What did you sign?”
“Marshall, calm down.”
“What did you sign?”
“It's not what you think.”
Dean looked at the screen.
“Dad, it says seller.”
Faye slammed the laptop shut.
Too late.
Marshall grabbed his jacket from the conference chair.
“Dean.”
“Yes?”
“Take Miles out of the high chair.”
Faye snapped, “Don't tell him—”
“Don't touch either of them.”
Something in Marshall's voice silenced her.
“Dean, take your brother into my office. Lock the door.”
Faye stared at the camera.
“You're overreacting.”
Marshall was already moving.
“What did you sign?”
“Nothing important.”
“You said my house was being sold.”
“I was angry.”
“You told my son he wouldn't be coming back.”
“He misunderstood.”
“Then open the laptop.”
Faye's face tightened.
“Open it.”
“No.”
Marshall entered the elevator.
His hands were shaking.
“I'm thirty minutes away.”
Faye's eyes widened.
“You're in Nashville?”
“I came back this morning.”
She had believed he was in Chicago until Friday.
Marshall watched panic spread across her face.
Then someone called Faye's phone.
She looked at the screen.
Marshall saw only the first name before she turned it over.
GRANT.
Marshall knew one Grant.
Grant Weller.
His lawyer.
His friend of fifteen years.
The man who had prepared the original purchase documents for the house.
Faye answered.
“Hello?”
She walked toward the hallway.
Marshall increased the camera volume.
Her voice dropped.
“He saw it.”
Pause.
“Yes, the camera.”
Another pause.
“No. He's already coming.”
Faye looked toward Dean.
Then whispered the sentence that made Marshall stop walking.
“Grant, tell me the deed already recorded.”
Marshall slowly turned back toward the elevator doors.
May you like
The house was not merely being prepared for sale.
Someone believed it had already been sold.
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