Chapter 3 - THE CAMERA IN THE NURSERYI didn't wake Juniper.
I couldn't risk moving her yet.
Instead, I carried her to the guest room and locked the door.
Willa checked the windows.
I checked the vents.
Nothing.
Then I noticed the nursery monitor.
Its tiny green light was blinking.
I unplugged it.
The light stayed on.
Willa stepped closer.
“That's not normal.”
I turned it over.
A second power cable had been connected behind it.
The monitor wasn't plugged into the wall.
It was connected directly to the home's security system.
My father's system.
“Unplug everything,” I whispered.
Willa did.
The light went dark.
Then my phone rang.
My father.
I answered.
“Where are you?”
“Your house.”
“Go home.”
“No.”
Silence.
Then he said something that made my blood freeze.
“Ethan, you should leave Juniper alone.”
I stared at the phone.
“What did you just say?”
“I said go home.”
“You said her name.”
Another pause.
“I know my granddaughter's name.”
“You've never called her Juniper.”
He hung up.
I stared at the screen.
Willa whispered, “Did he sound scared?”
“No.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“He sounded certain.”
We searched the nursery.
Behind the bookshelf, we found a small black device.
Not a camera.
A transmitter.
Willa recognized it.
“My father had these installed at his company.”
I swallowed.
“What for?”
“Remote audio.”
I felt sick.
“How long?”
“Could be years.”
Then Juniper appeared in the doorway.
“Daddy?”
I rushed to her.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
She hugged me.
Then she pointed behind me.
“That is where Aunt Tabitha hides the little black box.”
I turned.
“How do you know?”
“Because she told me not to touch it.”
I knelt.
“What does it do?”
Juniper whispered.
“It tells Grandpa when I'm awake.”
My blood turned to ice.
Willa looked at me.
“There's more.”
Juniper looked frightened.
“What?”
Willa crouched beside her.
“Sweetheart, what does Grandpa do when he knows you're awake?”
Juniper's eyes filled with tears.
“He comes.”
“When?”
“At night.”
I felt dizzy.
“Why?”
She looked at me as if the answer were obvious.
“To check if I remember Mommy.”
I stopped breathing.
My wife's name had not been spoken in our house for almost a year.
Not since she died.
“Juniper,” I whispered, “what do you remember about Mommy?”
She looked at me.
Then she whispered:
“Mommy didn't die in the accident.”
The room went completely still.
Willa dropped the transmitter.
I stared at my daughter.
“Who told you that?”
May you like
Juniper pointed toward the hallway.
“Aunt Tabitha.”
