A month later a young nursing student named Olivia Baker joined the household through a childcare agency. She was quiet, careful with her words, and almost invisible inside the grand penthouse.
She asked only for a small room near the nursery and permission to care for the babies during nights. I agreed without hesitation.
Diana disliked her immediately.
One evening during dinner Diana leaned toward me and said quietly, “She sits in the nursery with the lights off for hours, Victor, and that kind of behavior is unsettling because you never know what strangers might do inside your home.”
I frowned yet dismissed the concern because Olivia had been gentle with both infants. Miles’s endless crying even softened whenever she held him close.
Still, the seed of suspicion was planted.
A week later I hired a security company to install discreet cameras throughout the penthouse. They were small and silent and nearly invisible against the white walls.
I told myself the system was meant to protect the twins and give me peace of mind. I did not inform Olivia or Diana because I convinced myself secrecy was necessary.
For two weeks I ignored the recordings.
Then one stormy night thunder rolled across the bay and woke me with a pressure in my chest that made breathing difficult. I reached for my tablet and opened the security application without really knowing why.
The nursery camera appeared in soft gray night vision.
Olivia sat on the floor between the two cribs while holding Miles against her chest wrapped in a blanket. She gently swayed and hummed a melody that drifted through the microphone like a memory.
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