Part 2: The Little Guardian
Nathaniel took another step into the darkness.
"Nora?" he called, louder this time.
"Liam?"
Nothing.
His heartbeat pounded louder than the rain striking the windows.
He reached for the hallway switch.
The lights flickered once before illuminating a scene that froze him in place.
A broken vase lay scattered across the marble floor.
One dining chair had been knocked over.
Tiny footprints—mud mixed with water—led toward the staircase.
His suitcase slipped from his hand.
"Nora!"
He ran.
Every room on the first floor was empty.
The kitchen sink overflowed with dishes that should have been cleaned hours ago.
His phone finally caught a signal.
Seven missed calls.
Three from the housekeeper.
Two from the nanny.
Two from an unknown number.
His stomach tightened.
Before he could return a single call, he heard it.
A faint sound.
Not crying.
Whispering.
It came from upstairs.
He sprinted toward the second floor, taking two steps at a time.
The nursery was empty.
The guest room was untouched.
Then he reached the playroom.
The door was locked.
"Nora!"
No answer.
He slammed his shoulder against it.
Once.
Twice.
On the third hit, the old frame splintered.
Inside, hidden beneath a blanket fort built from cushions and dining chairs, two terrified faces stared back at him.
His daughter Nora.
Only seven years old.
Her arms wrapped tightly around her four-year-old brother Liam.
She immediately raised one finger to her lips.
"Shh..."
Nathaniel stopped breathing.
"Daddy..."
Her voice barely existed.
"Don't let her know you're here."
His heart seemed to stop.
"Where is Marianne?"
Nora shook her head.
"I don't know."
She looked exhausted.
There were dark circles beneath her eyes.
She wore yesterday's pajamas.
Liam was asleep against her shoulder, clutching an old stuffed elephant.
Nathaniel knelt.
"What happened?"
Nora hesitated.
Children often hide the truth because they fear they caused it.
But eventually, she whispered.
"She got angry."
"About what?"
"I spilled milk."
Nathaniel stared.
"She said good children don't make mistakes."
His jaw tightened.
"Then she locked us here."
"For how long?"
Nora looked toward the window.
"I think...since yesterday."
His blood turned cold.
Nearly twenty-four hours.
"No food?"
She smiled weakly.
"I saved Liam my sandwich."
Nathaniel noticed the crusts sitting on a paper napkin.
Untouched.
"What about you?"
"I wasn't hungry."
She lied.
Even seven-year-olds lied to protect someone else.
Nathaniel felt something inside him crack.
He lifted Liam carefully.
The little boy woke just enough to recognize his father before wrapping sleepy arms around his neck.
"Daddy..."
"I'm here."
Then Nora finally allowed herself to cry.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just silent tears that seemed too old for a child.
She buried her face against his jacket.
"I tried to be brave."
Nathaniel held both children tighter than he ever had.
"You already were."
Downstairs, headlights swept across the driveway.
A car door closed.
Marianne had come home.
Nathaniel gently set the children behind him.
The front door opened.
"Oh."
She smiled.
"You're early."
She looked immaculate.
Designer coat.
Perfect makeup.
Not one hair out of place.
Then she noticed the broken playroom door.
"What have you done?"
Nathaniel didn't answer.
Instead, he asked one question.
"Why?"
She laughed softly.
"They're children."
"They need discipline."
"Nora exaggerates."
"They weren't in danger."
Nathaniel looked at his daughter.
Then back at Marianne.
"I have security cameras."
For the first time...
Her smile disappeared.
Because she didn't know something.
Nathaniel had upgraded the entire estate before leaving for Japan.
Not just visible cameras.
Hidden ones.
Including one placed inside the upstairs hallway after several valuables had mysteriously disappeared months earlier.
It had recorded everything.
Every scream.
Every threat.
Every hour those children had spent locked away.
Marianne's confidence evaporated.
"You won't..."
"I already have."
Blue and red lights reflected across the rain-soaked windows.
Police cruisers rolled through the gates.
Marianne finally understood.
May you like
This wasn't an argument.
It was the end.
