Chapter 2 - The Hidden Frequency
The digital face of my smartwatch glowed faintly against my wrist as I carried Mateo up the sweeping mahogany staircase. The device wasn't just a timepiece; it was a discrete line to Detective Marcus Thorne of the city’s major crimes division. Nine months ago, when Eleanor Vale—Mateo’s mother—had allegedly drowned in the estate’s indoor pool, the official ruling was accidental death. I had seen the bruising on her wrists before the autopsy could be altered. Marcus had listened to me then, and he was listening now.
“Nanny Rosa,” Mateo whimpered, burying his damp face in the crook of my neck. “It’s in my arm. The metal thing. It talks when the lights go out.”
“I know, sweetheart,” I whispered back, kicking the nursery door shut behind us with my heel. “You’re safe now. Just hold onto me.”
The nursery was a fortress of wealth and loneliness. Smart-home speakers lined the crown molding, smart-locks secured the windows, and security cameras watched every corner. Vivienne called it safety. I called it a cage.
I set Mateo down gently on the edge of his quilted bed and knelt before him. My fingers brushed the thick, sterile white plaster. Underneath, a faint, rhythmic humming vibrated against my fingertips. It wasn't just a syringe; it was a micro-infusion pump, the kind used to administer precise, slow-release neurotoxins or paralytics. Dr. Harlan wasn't setting a bone; he was maintaining a prisoner.
“Rosa!” Daniel’s voice boomed from the bottom of the stairs. Heavy footfalls echoed on the marble. He was coming up. Fast.
“Lock the door,” Mateo begged, his small hands grabbing my uniform sleeve.
I didn't lock it. Locking a door in this house was treated as an act of war. Instead, I grabbed a heavy orthopedic shears kit from the emergency medical bag I kept hidden behind the bookshelf—a relic from my days in the trauma ward.
The doorknob turned. Daniel didn't bother knocking.
“Rosa, open this door right now,” Daniel ordered, his voice laced with venom. The door swung open, slamming against the wall. Daniel stood in the frame, his tie loosened, his eyes dark with fury. Vivienne stood a few steps behind him, a phone pressed to her ear. “You’re fired. Get your things and get out.”
“Mr. Vale, your son is dying of sepsis or poisoning, and you want to fire me?” I stood up, placing myself squarely between Daniel and the bed.
“You’re hysterical,” Daniel snarled, taking a step forward. “Vivienne, call security. Have her thrown off the property.”
“I wouldn't do that, Daniel,” a calm, gravelly voice echoed from the hallway behind them.
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A tall man in a rumpled trench coat stepped into the light. Detective Marcus Thorne flashed a gold badge before Daniel could react.
“And I wouldn't touch her either,” Marcus added, resting his hand casually near his service weapon. “We heard everything over the open line, Mr. Vale. Every single word.”
