Chapter 9 - THE HOUSE WITH NO CAMERASRebecca Shaw spent the next hour explaining how much trouble we were in.
She didn't use dramatic language.
She didn't need to.
The missing evidence meant someone had interfered with material connected to Claire's death.
It did not, by itself, establish who had done so.
But combined with the nursery attack, the suspicious shipments, and Dominic's presence beside a missing teenager, it gave Shaw enough concern to seek a tightly controlled investigation.
"From this point forward," she said, "you need to assume that information shared too broadly may reach the wrong people."
"That sounds familiar," Hannah replied.
Shaw looked at her.
"Miss Mercer, I understand you have experience in protective security."
"Yes."
"Then you understand why I don't want either of you conducting your own rescue operation."
I leaned forward.
"There's a sixteen-year-old boy somewhere near my pier."
"I know. And if he's being held against his will, rushing in without knowing who else is involved could endanger him."
I wanted to argue.
I wanted to tell her that I had men capable of finding Dominic before sunset.
But she continued.
"Mr. Moretti, your resources may help us locate victims. They do not give you the right to make yourself judge, jury, and executioner."
Hannah glanced at me.
I knew what she was thinking.
For once, I listened.
"What do you need?" I asked.
"Access to your company's records. Names of employees who authorized special transfers. A complete account of your own involvement, including conduct unrelated to these particular shipments if it bears on the investigation."
Samuel shifted beside me.
"We'll discuss how my client can cooperate while preserving his legal rights."
Shaw nodded.
"That's appropriate."
I appreciated that she wasn't pretending this would be easy.
For the first time in my life, I was being asked to give up control without any promise that doing so would save me.
And I was considering it.
When we returned to the temporary house, Emma came running down the hallway.
"Daddy!"
She threw herself into my arms.
I lifted her.
"What's all this?"
"We made cookies!"
"Did you?"
"Miss Hannah said you can't eat all the dough."
"That sounds like an unreasonable rule."
Emma giggled.
Hannah entered the kitchen carrying a baking tray.
"It's a very reasonable rule."
"According to whom?"
"People who don't want children with stomachaches."
I looked at my daughter.
"We're surrounded by tyranny."
Emma laughed so hard she nearly dropped her cookie.
Noah appeared behind her.
"Daddy, I made yours crooked."
He held up a star-shaped cookie that looked more like a squashed triangle.
I examined it seriously.
"It's perfect."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is."
He smiled.
"Because I made it?"
"Because you made it for me."
His small face softened.
Then he hugged my neck.
It was the kind of moment I had once taken for granted.
A crooked cookie.
A child's laughter.
A woman in a cardigan telling everyone to wash their hands.
None of it involved money.
None of it involved fear.
And somehow, it felt more valuable than anything I owned.
Later that evening, Rosa found me sitting alone in the kitchen.
She placed a cup of coffee in front of me.
"You look like your father."
I frowned.
"That's not usually a compliment."
"It wasn't meant to be."
I almost smiled.
Rosa sat opposite me.
"Your father thought taking care of his family meant making everyone else afraid of him."
"He kept us safe."
"Did he?"
I looked up.
She continued.
"Your mother spent half her life waiting for bad news. You spent your childhood learning which rooms were safe to enter when he was angry."
I said nothing.
"Don't make Emma and Noah grow up the same way."
Her words hurt because they came from love.
"Claire said something similar."
"Claire said a lot of things you didn't want to hear."
I lowered my eyes.
Rosa reached into her pocket.
"I found this while packing."
She placed a small brass key on the table.
A faded blue ribbon was tied around it.
"Where?"
"Inside Mrs. Moretti's shawl. It was tucked into a little pocket she'd sewn into the lining."
I lifted the key.
Stamped into the metal were four characters.
H.L.17.
Harbor Light.
Seventeen.
"Did you find anything else?"
Rosa nodded.
"A note."
She handed me a folded square of paper.
Claire's handwriting covered one side.
The ocean is deeper than it looks.
I stared.
"What does that mean?"
"I thought you might know."
I didn't.
But Hannah did.
When she saw the note, she went very still.
"Claire used to say that when she talked about the painting in the twins' playroom."
I frowned.
"The ocean mural?"
"Yes."
Claire had painted an enormous underwater scene across one wall.
Blue whales.
Colorful fish.
Coral reefs.
A little yellow submarine.
She used to tell the twins that the ocean contained worlds people couldn't see from the surface.
"Why would she leave a note about a painting?" I asked.
Hannah looked at the key.
"Maybe because she wanted someone to look beneath it."
The next morning, Samuel delivered the key and note to Shaw.
Investigators identified a storage locker associated with Harbor Light and obtained legal authorization to examine it.
Inside were old financial documents, donation receipts, and a small cardboard box.
The box contained photographs of the Moretti estate.
Most were ordinary.
A family party.
The garden.
The playroom.
But one photograph showed Claire standing beside the ocean mural.
She had a paintbrush in her hand.
Behind her, the largest whale was only half-finished.
On the back, she'd written:
Some things are safer where only the children know to look.
I stared at the photograph.
Claire had hidden something.
Something important enough to conceal before her death.
And perhaps she'd trusted our children to remember something adults would overlook.
That afternoon, Hannah and I drove through the neighborhood surrounding the temporary house.
We wanted to speak privately before deciding when to return to the estate.
She was looking through the passenger window when her expression changed.
"Don't look behind us."
Naturally, I wanted to.
"Why?"
"Gray SUV. Two cars back."
"What about it?"
"I saw it near the grocery store yesterday."
I kept my eyes on the road.
"Coincidence?"
"Possibly."
We continued driving.
At the next intersection, the SUV turned.
So did we.
A few minutes later, it appeared again.
Hannah quietly photographed its license plate through the side mirror.
Then she contacted Samuel.
"Can you verify whether this vehicle belongs to anyone connected to Vincent's security team?"
A few minutes passed.
Her phone rang.
She listened.
Then her face changed.
"Are you sure?"
She ended the call.
I glanced at her.
"What?"
"The SUV is registered to a security company."
"Which one?"
She looked directly at me.
"Gabriel's."
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
"Gabriel is at the estate."
"That's what he told us."
I checked the mirror.
The SUV had slowed near the intersection.
Then the driver's window lowered.
The man behind the wheel turned his head.
I recognized him immediately.
Gabriel Ortiz.
My head of security.
May you like
One of the last men I believed capable of betraying me.
And somehow, he had found the house where my children were hiding.
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