Chapter 2 - The Camera Beside June’s Garden
If the girls found you, she remembered.
I read the message three times.
Marcus read it once.
Then he took the phone from my hand.
“Don’t reply.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I was thinking about finding whoever sent it.”
“That comes after we know whether they’re still on the property.”
He handed the phone back and turned toward the security console.
The frozen image of the hooded woman remained on the largest monitor.
Nora and Abby stood beside her beneath the trees.
The woman’s hand rested against Nora’s cheek.
The sunflower pendant hung at her throat.
And around her wrist was a hospital band from the same pediatric oncology unit where June had spent the last seventy-two days of her life.
The room felt too small.
“Show me what happened after this.”
Marcus resumed the footage.
7:46:12.
The woman rose.
Nora took Abby’s hand.
The woman pointed toward the mansion.
Not the driveway.
Not the gate.
The house itself.
7:46:21.
Nora shook her head.
The woman crouched again.
Whatever she said could not be heard.
The garden camera had no audio.
7:46:43.
Abby threw both arms around the woman’s neck.
The woman held her.
Longer than necessary.
Too long for someone simply dropping off children.
Then Nora joined them.
All three remained together in the rain.
I stared at the image.
“That’s their mother.”
Marcus did not answer.
“You think so too.”
“Possibly.”
“That’s not how a stranger says goodbye.”
“No.”
The woman pulled away first.
She pressed something into Nora’s hand.
Nora immediately shoved it into the pocket of her wet coat.
“What was that?”
Marcus zoomed in.
The picture broke into pixels.
“Too small.”
“Keep going.”
At 7:47:09, the woman stepped backward toward the trees.
Abby tried to follow.
Nora caught her.
The woman shook her head.
Then she pointed toward the house again.
At 7:47:23, she disappeared through the eastern tree line.
The girls stayed where they were.
For almost a full minute.
Nora looked after her.
Abby cried.
Not loudly.
I knew because I saw her shoulders moving.
Then Nora wiped Abby’s face with her sleeve, took her hand, and walked toward my house.
Marcus switched cameras.
East lawn.
7:49.
The girls appeared again.
Side terrace.
7:54.
Rear walkway.
7:58.
Then nothing.
“Where did they go?”
Marcus pulled up another feed.
“The camera covering the north passage was offline between 7:52 and 8:19.”
“Offline?”
“Not weather-related.”
“You know that already?”
“System log shows a manual interruption.”
I turned toward him.
“From where?”
He clicked through a second screen.
His expression changed.
“What?”
“Internal access.”
“Meaning?”
“Someone with house credentials disabled it.”
A pulse moved through my jaw.
“Which credentials?”
“I’m checking.”
The security system required individual codes for staff.
Mine.
Marcus’s.
Mrs. Alvarez’s.
Maintenance.
Groundskeeper.
Two house managers.
No shared logins.
No guest access.
Nobody could disable a camera without leaving a record.
Marcus opened the activity log.
Then stopped.
“What?”
He leaned closer.
“That’s not possible.”
“Marcus.”
“The camera was disabled under an archived credential.”
“What archived credential?”
He looked at me.
“June’s caregiver profile.”
I did not understand him.
Not at first.
“That profile was removed.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“After she died.”
The sentence landed harder than it should have.
After she died.
People said that phrase as if death were a clean line.
Before.
After.
There was nothing clean about it.
“Who had access to that profile?”
“Initially?”
“Yes.”
“You. Catherine before she died. Me. Mrs. Alvarez. And whichever medical aide was on the approved care rotation.”
“Names.”
“I’ll pull them.”
“Now.”
Marcus typed.
A list appeared.
Most of the names meant nothing.
Agency nurses.
Home-care aides.
A pediatric occupational therapist.
Two overnight caregivers.
Then one name did.
ELENA VALE — TEMPORARY HOME CARE ACCESS
I stared at it.
“Who is Elena Vale?”
Marcus frowned.
“I don’t remember.”
“She had access to my daughter.”
“I remember the regular nurses.”
“So do I.”
June had hated strangers.
By the end, there were too many of them.
Doctors.
Nurses.
Phlebotomists.
Specialists.
People with gentle voices and badges.
Still, I remembered faces.
I remembered every person who had walked through June’s bedroom while she was sick because I had judged each of them in the first five seconds.
Could they hurt her?
Could they frighten her?
Could they save her?
Elena Vale gave me nothing.
“Dates?”
Marcus opened the access history.
Then his eyes narrowed.
“That’s strange.”
I almost laughed.
“Choose a different word.”
“Her profile existed for eleven days.”
“When?”
He read the dates.
My mouth went dry.
The final eleven days of June’s life.
“She was here?”
“According to this.”
“I never met her.”
“Maybe hospital-side access transferred to the home system.”
“No.”
I pointed toward the screen.
“This says home care.”
Marcus knew better than to argue.
“Pull the camera archives from those dates.”
“Everett.”
“What?”
“Our local archive only goes back thirty days.”
“You said remote is six months.”
“Yes.”
“June died a year ago.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“We’ll have to check the off-site security archive.”
“Do it.”
“I’ll need authorization from the storage vendor.”
“You have mine.”
“I mean technically.”
“Marcus.”
“I’m doing it.”
My phone vibrated again.
Same unknown number.
No photograph this time.
Just text.
Do not ask Nora about Elena.
I looked at Marcus.
He swore quietly.
I called the number.
It rang once.
Then disconnected.
I called again.
Unavailable.
“Trace it.”
“I need the carrier.”
“Get them.”
“It takes time.”
“Then make people uncomfortable until it takes less.”
That was the old Everett speaking.
The man who believed pressure solved everything.
Marcus gave me a look.
Not judgment.
Recognition.
“You should check on the girls.”
“I’m staying here.”
“You’re doing what you always do.”
“What’s that?”
“Turning fear into work.”
I stared at him.
“Careful.”
“You pay me to be careful.”
“No. I pay you to be useful.”
“Then go upstairs.”
For several seconds neither of us moved.
Marcus had known me before the warehouses.
Before the waterfront deals.
Before people began lowering their voices when they said my name.
He was one of the few men alive who could tell me I was behaving like an idiot and reasonably expect to leave the room employed.
My phone vibrated again.
Not the unknown sender.
Mrs. Alvarez.
Abby is asking for you.
I left.
The guest room was on the second floor at the end of the west corridor.
I had walked past it thousands of times.
That night, the door stood open.
Mrs. Alvarez sat on the edge of one bed.
Abby was beneath the covers of the other.
Nora sat beside her.
Both had changed into clothes Mrs. Alvarez found in storage.
Old children’s pajamas.
Not June’s.
I checked.
I hated myself for checking.
Abby looked at me.
“You came.”
“You asked for me.”
Nora immediately said, “She’s fine.”
Abby frowned.
“I wanted to ask him.”
“Ask me what?”
Nora gave her sister a warning look.
Abby ignored it.
“Do you have a little girl?”
The question entered my chest slowly.
“No.”
Abby looked confused.
“You did.”
Nobody spoke.
Nora’s face drained.
“Abby.”
“What?”
“Stop.”
I remained near the doorway.
“How do you know that?”
Abby looked toward the floor.
Nora whispered:
“She doesn’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
“She had yellow boots.”
My hand tightened around the doorframe.
June had owned yellow rain boots.
Bright yellow.
She wore them even when it was not raining.
She once slept in them until Catherine finally removed them after midnight.
Those boots had never appeared in the foundation photographs.
Never in her obituary.
Never online.
“Who had yellow boots?”
Abby looked at me.
“The smiling-flower girl.”
Nora stood abruptly.
“She’s tired.”
Mrs. Alvarez rose too.
“Nora—”
“She says things when she’s tired.”
Abby’s eyes filled with frustration.
“You always say that.”
“Because you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You said Mom was coming back.”
The room changed.
Nora realized what she had said.
Abby went silent.
I spoke carefully.
“Is your mother missing?”
Nora looked at me.
“No.”
“You said she was sick.”
“She is.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“That means she’s missing.”
“No.”
“Nora.”
“She said she would come back.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Where were you supposed to wait?”
Nora’s eyes moved toward Abby.
Then me.
“She didn’t say.”
“That woman in the garden was your mother.”
Nora froze.
Mrs. Alvarez looked at me.
I continued.
“We have cameras.”
Nora’s breathing changed.
“You watched us?”
“This is my property.”
“She said the cameras wouldn’t see.”
There it was.
I did not move.
“Who said?”
Nora looked away.
“Your mother?”
No answer.
“Nora.”
“She knew where they were.”
“Why?”
“She just did.”
“How did she know one could be turned off?”
Nora’s eyes snapped back to mine.
She had not known that part.
Good.
I had learned something.
“Did she bring you here?”
Nora said nothing.
Abby answered.
“Yes.”
“Abby!”
“She did.”
“Why?”
Abby opened her mouth.
Nora grabbed her hand.
“Because she needed help.”
“From me?”
Silence.
“Did she know my name?”
Nora whispered:
“Yes.”
My skin went cold.
“What did she call me?”
Nora looked trapped.
Then Abby said:
“Mr. June’s Daddy.”
Mrs. Alvarez inhaled sharply.
I sat down in the chair beside the bed because suddenly standing seemed unnecessary.
“Your mother knew June?”
Nora’s face hardened.
“She said not to talk about her.”
“Why?”
“Because bad people listen.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“No.”
“You’re protecting someone.”
“I’m protecting Abby.”
That answer stopped me.
Nora’s chin trembled.
She hated that I had seen it.
I softened my voice.
“You did a good job getting her here.”
Her eyes changed.
For the first time since arriving, she looked nine.
Not guarded.
Not suspicious.
Nine.
“You’re both safe tonight.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Marcus has security on every entrance.”
“That didn’t stop us.”
Fair.
I almost smiled.
Almost.
“What was your mother afraid of?”
Nora looked toward Mrs. Alvarez.
I understood.
“Could we have a minute?”
Mrs. Alvarez hesitated.
Then nodded.
“I’ll be outside.”
Once she left, I remained seated.
No intimidation.
No standing over them.
No questions fired too quickly.
“Your mother gave you something in the garden.”
Nora’s hand immediately moved toward the folded wet coat on the chair.
There.
I looked at it.
She noticed.
“Was it money?”
“No.”
“A phone?”
“No.”
“Something for me?”
Silence.
“Did she tell you to give it to me?”
Nora’s eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Because she said only if Abby remembered.”
The message.
If the girls found you, she remembered.
My heartbeat slowed.
“What did Abby have to remember?”
Nora looked at her sister.
“The flowers.”
The room went perfectly still.
“Give me what she gave you.”
Nora shook her head.
“Why?”
“She said there was one more thing.”
“What?”
“She said if Abby remembered the flowers, I had to ask you a question first.”
“Ask.”
Nora swallowed.
“What did June call the moon when she could only see half of it?”
I stared at her.
There were memories grief protected so fiercely that even I had forgotten where they were stored.
June, sitting on my shoulders in the garden.
Half moon above us.
“Broken cookie,” she had said.
I whispered:
“A broken cookie.”
Nora closed her eyes.
A tear escaped.
Then she reached for the wet coat.
From inside the lining, she removed a small plastic-wrapped envelope.
My name was written across the front.
Not Everett.
Not Mr. Whitmore.
June’s Daddy.
I took it.
My fingers shook.
Inside was a brass key.
A small folded photograph.
And a note.
Three lines.
She wanted you to know.
The garden camera saw more than they erased.
Ask who was standing behind June.
I unfolded the photograph.
June stood in the hospital garden three days before she died.
Yellow boots.
Sunflower sweater.
Smiling at someone outside the frame.
I turned the picture over.
One sentence was written on the back.
He told everyone he never met her.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Fast.
Marcus appeared in the doorway.
His face had changed.
“Everett.”
“What?”
“I pulled the archived garden footage.”
He looked at the photograph in my hand.
Then at Nora.
“There’s someone in it you need to see.”
He turned the tablet toward me.
A man was standing behind June.
May you like
I knew him.
And he was inside my house right now.
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