Chapter 2 - WHAT THE TWINS WERE AFRAID TO SAY
I stopped breathing.
Annie Reed stood in front of me holding Justin against her shoulder while Jordan pressed himself against her skirt.
“There’s something your boys have been trying to tell you.”
The hallway suddenly felt too narrow.
“What?”
Annie glanced toward the staircase.
Not at me.
At the staircase.
“Can we go somewhere private?”
“We are private.”
“No.”
Her voice was quiet but firm.
“Somewhere nobody can hear us.”
A cold sensation moved down my spine.
I looked toward the security camera mounted above the hallway arch.
For the first time, I wondered who might be watching it.
“My study.”
Annie nodded.
We went downstairs.
Justin refused to let her put him down.
Jordan followed so closely that he nearly stepped on the back of her shoes.
When we entered my study, I locked the door.
Annie noticed.
“Now tell me.”
She crouched beside the boys.
“Jordan?”
My son stared at the carpet.
“It’s okay,” Annie whispered.
Jordan shook his head.
Justin buried his face against her neck.
I forced myself not to rush them.
“What happened today?”
Annie looked at me.
“They weren’t supposed to be upstairs.”
“I know.”
“The playroom was locked.”
I frowned.
“Locked?”
“Yes.”
“That door doesn’t lock.”
“It did today.”
Something tightened inside me.
“Then why were they in my bedroom?”
“They ran there.”
“From whom?”
Neither boy moved.
Annie reached into the pocket of her housekeeping dress.
She removed something small.
Black.
Plastic.
She placed it on my desk.
I stared.
It was a memory card.
“Where did you get that?”
“Jordan.”
I looked at my son.
He immediately stepped behind Annie.
My heart cracked.
My own child was afraid to stand in front of me.
Annie continued carefully.
“He found it behind the dresser in your bedroom.”
“That doesn’t explain why they were there.”
“No.”
She looked at Jordan.
“Tell your daddy what you told me.”
Jordan’s lips trembled.
“He’ll get mad.”
“I won’t,” I said immediately.
Jordan flinched.
That reaction hurt worse than any accusation.
I lowered my voice.
“I promise.”
He looked at Annie.
She nodded.
Jordan whispered:
“Mr. Gray said Daddy doesn’t want bad boys.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
Justin began crying.
“Mr. Gray said Mommy died because we were bad!”
My entire body went cold.
“Who is Mr. Gray?”
Annie’s expression changed.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
She looked genuinely frightened now.
“Your sons say he works for you.”
I stood so quickly my chair struck the wall.
“There is nobody named Gray working in this house.”
Jordan started crying.
“Daddy mad.”
“No.”
I dropped to my knees.
“No, buddy. Not at you.”
He backed away anyway.
I stopped moving.
Annie placed one hand on his shoulder.
“Mr. Morrison, sit down.”
Nobody spoke to me that way.
Not employees.
Not executives.
Not even most friends.
I sat.
Annie looked at Jordan.
“Tell him about the closet.”
Jordan shook his head.
Justin answered instead.
“He puts us in dark.”
My stomach dropped.
“What closet?”
“The downstairs coat closet,” Annie said.
I stared at her.
“He locks them inside.”
For several seconds, I heard nothing.
Not the clock.
Not the heating system.
Nothing.
“Who?”
“They call him Mr. Gray.”
I stood again.
This time Annie didn’t stop me.
I opened the study door.
“Charles!”
My voice thundered through the house.
Our estate manager appeared thirty seconds later.
Charles Whitaker had worked for my family for nine years.
Sixty-two.
Perfect manners.
Absolute reliability.
“What is it, sir?”
“Who is Gray?”
His face changed.
Barely.
But I saw it.
“Sir?”
“Gray.”
“I’m not familiar with anyone—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Annie came into the hallway.
Charles looked at her.
His expression hardened.
There.
A reaction.
“You,” he said.
Annie stiffened.
“What about me?”
Charles turned to me.
“Mr. Morrison, I strongly suggest we discuss this privately.”
“We are discussing it now.”
His eyes flicked toward the twins.
“They shouldn’t hear.”
“They already heard enough.”
Charles remained silent.
“Who is Gray?”
Finally:
“Graham.”
“What?”
“Graham Vale.”
The name meant nothing.
“He was hired as a temporary security consultant.”
“By whom?”
Charles hesitated.
“Mrs. Morrison.”
My heart stopped.
“Lauren?”
“No.”
Charles swallowed.
“Your mother.”
My mother.
Evelyn Morrison.
Chairwoman emeritus of Morrison Dynamics.
The woman who had spent fourteen months telling me my sons needed stricter discipline.
“What does Graham Vale do with my children?”
Charles looked toward Annie.
“I don’t know what she’s told you—”
“I’m asking you.”
“He was supposed to monitor behavioral issues.”
“By locking five-year-olds in closets?”
Charles’s face drained.
“I knew nothing about that.”
Jordan whispered behind me.
“He knows.”
Every adult froze.
I turned.
Jordan was crying silently.
“He hears us.”
Charles looked horrified.
“When?”
Jordan pointed toward him.
“When we scream.”
I felt something inside me break.
I walked toward Charles.
“You heard my sons screaming inside a locked closet?”
“Mr. Morrison—”
“Yes or no?”
He looked down.
“Yes.”
My hands curled into fists.
Annie stepped between us.
Not to protect Charles.
To protect me from doing something I could never undo.
“Your boys need you,” she whispered.
Those four words stopped me.
I looked toward Jordan and Justin.
Both were watching me.
Not Charles.
Me.
Waiting to see what their father would do.
I stepped back.
“Charles, you’re fired.”
“Sir—”
“Leave.”
“Your mother authorized—”
“I don’t care if God authorized it.”
My voice shook.
“You heard my children screaming and walked away.”
Charles’s face hardened.
“You were never here.”
The accusation hit its target.
“I called you repeatedly.”
“What?”
“Your mother said the boys were becoming uncontrollable. She brought Vale in. I disagreed.”
“But you stayed.”
“I needed this job.”
“So did Annie.”
I pointed toward her.
“She risked hers.”
Charles said nothing.
“Get out.”
He left.
I immediately called security.
Not estate security.
A private firm I trusted through Morrison Dynamics.
Then I called the police.
Annie looked surprised.
“You’re reporting it?”
“They’re my sons.”
“I know.”
“No.”
I looked at Jordan and Justin.
“I’m beginning to realize I didn’t.”
The police arrived forty minutes later.
Graham Vale was gone.
His temporary employee file contained an address that didn’t exist.
His phone had been disconnected.
And every internal security recording from the hallway outside the coat closet had been deleted.
Except one possibility.
The memory card on my desk.
I had our corporate security director bring an encrypted laptop.
He inserted the card.
Three folders appeared.
The first contained security footage.
The second contained photographs.
The third was labeled:
L.M.
My heart stopped.
Lauren Morrison.
My dead wife’s initials.
I clicked.
A video appeared.
The timestamp was from sixteen months earlier.
Two months before Lauren died.
Lauren appeared on-screen.
She was sitting inside her SUV.
Alive.
My chest collapsed.
Her hair was tied back.
She looked terrified.
Then my dead wife stared directly into the camera and said:
“Daniel, if you’re watching this, something has happened to me.”
Annie covered her mouth.
I couldn’t move.
Lauren continued.
“And whatever they tell you…”
May you like
She glanced nervously through the windshield.
“…my accident was not an accident.”
