Chapter 1 - The Voice at 2:17 A.M.
One of the twins screamed in my arms as I whispered:
“Please, sweetheart. Tell me what hurts.”
Damian Moretti stepped into the doorway and saw the silver baby monitor lying beside me.
A tiny red light was blinking beneath its cracked casing.
Then a woman whispered through it:
“He can never know.”
Damian stopped breathing.
The six-year-old boy died at 11:47 p.m.
At 12:06 a.m., the most feared man in Chicago offered me a job.
Those twenty-five minutes divided my life into before and after.
My name is Claire Bennett.
At thirty-two, I had spent almost nine years working pediatric night shifts, which meant I knew what grief sounded like when everyone else had gone home.
It wasn't always screaming.
Sometimes it was a mother folding a tiny sweater into a plastic hospital bag.
Sometimes it was a father staring at an empty bed.
Sometimes it was a nurse standing alone in a supply closet because she needed sixty seconds to become professional again.
That night, the little boy in Room 418 had been sick for months.
I had known the outcome was coming.
Knowing didn't make it easier.
At 11:47, his heart stopped.
At 11:53, his mother pressed her forehead against mine and thanked me for staying.
At midnight, I walked into the staff restroom and cried.
Six minutes later, my supervisor knocked.
“Claire?”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I will be.”
“There’s someone asking for you.”
I washed my face.
“Family?”
She hesitated.
“Not exactly.”
Two men were waiting outside the pediatric wing.
The first wore a charcoal suit and had the posture of someone who noticed every exit before entering a room.
The second man needed no introduction.
I knew Damian Moretti because everyone in Chicago knew Damian Moretti.
Not personally.
From photographs.
From whispers.
From news reports carefully worded by attorneys.
He was forty-one, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with tattoos climbing above the open collar of his white shirt. A heavy gold chain rested against his chest.
His reputation entered rooms before he did.
People called him businessman when microphones were present.
Other words were used when they weren't.
I expected arrogance.
What I saw instead was exhaustion.
“You’re Claire Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“My sons need a nurse.”
“I’m working.”
“Your shift ends at midnight.”
I glanced at the clock.
12:08.
“You've been checking my schedule?”
“My people checked which nurse here was best with infants.”
“That doesn't make this less strange.”
Something almost like respect crossed his face.
“My twins are four months old. They haven’t slept properly in three weeks.”
“Then take them to their pediatrician.”
“I have.”
“Another pediatrician.”
“Three.”
I folded my arms.
“And?”
“They say the boys are healthy.”
“Maybe they’re wrong.”
His eyes narrowed.
That was apparently not something people often said to Damian Moretti.
His companion shifted.
Damian lifted one finger, and the man became still.
“What would it take,” Damian asked, “for you to come examine them tonight?”
“I don't make private house calls.”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“No.”
“Ten.”
“No.”
“Twenty.”
I stared at him.
“Mr. Moretti, the fact that you think money changes my answer tells me you’ve spent too much time around people who need yours.”
His companion looked at the floor.
I suspected he was hiding a smile.
Damian didn't smile.
He reached into his jacket.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
He withdrew a photograph.
Two infant boys.
Identical blue sleepers.
Identical dark eyes.
One baby had his fist curled against the other’s cheek.
“They cry every night,” Damian said. “Always after two.”
Something in his voice changed.
Fear.
Not fear for himself.
For them.
“What happens at two?”
“I don't know.”
“Feeding schedule?”
“Normal.”
“Temperature?”
“Normal.”
“Reflux?”
“Tested.”
“Any fever?”
“No.”
“Rash?”
“No.”
“Changes in formula?”
“Twice.”
“Who cares for them?”
“Nannies. Night nurses. My housekeeper. Me.”
“How many nurses?”
“You'd be number seven.”
That made me look up.
“Seven?”
“They quit.”
“Why?”
“They said the house frightened them.”
I almost laughed.
Then I saw he wasn't joking.
“What exactly are you asking me to do?”
“One night.”
I looked toward Room 418.
Through the glass, the little boy's mother was still sitting beside the empty bed.
I should have gone home.
Instead I heard myself ask, “Where?”
“Gold Coast.”
Of course.
“Twenty-four hours,” I said. “I assess them. If they need a hospital, they go to a hospital. No arguments.”
“Agreed.”
“And nobody interferes with me while I’m working.”
His companion actually coughed.
Damian stared at me.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Stop looking at me like you bought me.”
For the first time, Damian smiled.
Barely.
“I think,” he said, “you might survive my house.”
I didn't understand the sentence until later.
At 1:04 a.m., I entered his mansion.
By 1:40, I had examined both boys.
Leo and Luca.
Four months old.
Healthy weight.
Clear lungs.
Normal temperature.
No obvious signs of injury.
Both babies were alert and responsive.
Damian watched from the corner.
“Anything?”
“Nothing alarming.”
His jaw hardened.
“That’s what everyone says.”
“Healthy babies cry.”
“Not like this.”
“How?”
He looked toward the clock.
“Wait.”
2:13.
Leo was sleeping.
Luca followed minutes later.
I dimmed the lamp.
Damian remained by the doorway.
“You can leave,” I said.
“No.”
“They might sleep better without you glaring at them.”
“I don't glare.”
I looked at him.
He almost smiled again.
Then the clock changed.
2:17.
Leo's eyes opened.
Not slowly.
Instantly.
His entire body stiffened.
Then he screamed.
Luca followed one second later.
The sound was different from ordinary infant crying.
Sharp.
Terrified.
Both babies turned their heads toward the same corner.
I followed their gaze.
Nothing.
I lifted Leo.
“Easy.”
Damian reached for Luca.
“No,” I said.
His hand stopped.
“Let me observe them together.”
He didn't like it.
He obeyed.
I gathered both babies against my chest.
Their crying intensified.
Then I heard it.
A faint crackle.
Static.
I looked toward the nightstand.
A baby monitor sat beside the lamp.
Its red light flickered.
“Is that connected to another room?”
Damian frowned.
“No.”
Static again.
Then breathing.
Human breathing.
My skin prickled.
I reached for the monitor.
“Claire.”
“Quiet.”
A woman's voice came through the speaker.
Faint.
Distorted.
But unmistakable.
“Leo…”
The baby in my left arm stopped crying.
My eyes snapped toward Damian.
His face had gone rigid.
The voice returned.
“My sweet boy.”
Luca stopped next.
The room became silent.
I stared at the monitor.
Damian crossed the room.
“Who is that?”
I turned the device over.
There was no manufacturer's label.
No battery compartment I recognized.
A tiny piece of black tape covered part of the casing.
I peeled it back.
A second red light blinked underneath.
This wasn't an ordinary baby monitor.
It had been modified.
Then the woman whispered again.
“Please forgive me.”
Damian grabbed the device.
“Who are you?”
Static.
Nothing.
He shook it.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Don't.”
He looked at me.
“You'll frighten them.”
His eyes dropped to his sons.
Both were staring toward the speaker.
Not crying.
Listening.
That frightened me more.
Damian lowered his voice.
“Who installed this?”
“I don't know.”
“You were alone with them.”
“For less than an hour.”
His expression changed instantly.
I stood.
“If you're accusing me—”
“I’m asking.”
“No. You're accusing.”
He stared at me.
I put both babies carefully into the crib.
“Then find nurse number eight.”
I grabbed my bag.
“Claire.”
I headed for the door.
Then Leo screamed again.
I stopped.
Luca joined him.
I looked back.
Damian stood beside the crib, completely helpless.
The most feared man in Chicago could make grown men cross streets to avoid him.
But his four-month-old sons were crying, and he didn't know what to do.
I returned.
Not for Damian.
For them.
“Give me the monitor.”
He handed it over.
I examined the casing.
There was a seam along one edge.
I worked my fingernail beneath it.
The back opened.
Inside was a memory card.
And something else.
A folded strip of paper.
Damian saw it.
“What is that?”
“I don't know.”
I unfolded it.
Three numbers had been written in blue ink.
2:17.
Underneath them were two letters.
N.M.
Damian's face drained of color.
“You recognize that?”
He didn't answer.
“Damian?”
He took the paper.
For several seconds, he simply stared.
Then he whispered a name.
“Natalia.”
“Who is Natalia?”
His eyes lifted toward me.
“My wife.”
I glanced toward the twins.
“Where is she?”
“Dead.”
The word landed heavily.
“When?”
“Four months ago.”
I looked at the babies.
Damian's voice became quieter.
“She died the night they were born.”
The monitor crackled.
We both turned.
The woman's voice returned.
Clearer now.
“If Damian is hearing this, then somebody failed.”
Damian went completely still.
The recording continued.
“The boys are in danger.”
I felt the room change.
Damian reached for the monitor.
Then the voice said something that stopped his hand in midair.
“Damian believes Leo and Luca are his sons.”
A pause.
“But the truth is—”
The bedroom door opened behind us.
May you like
Someone was standing there.
And whoever it was had heard everything.
