Chapter 5 - The Smart-Home Stage
Two days later, on a Thursday afternoon, my phone buzzed while I was sitting in Caleb’s command center reviewing financial asset transfers.
It was a text message from Vanessa.
“Darling, how is the conference going in Denver? Wish you were here. Nora had another difficult morning today. Refused to eat breakfast, started screaming about the lights in the kitchen, and threw her juice glass against the wall. I’m starting to worry the specialist appointment we discussed last month is becoming urgent.”
Attached to the text was a short video clip.
It showed Nora—or rather, a clever, high-definition digital loop we had synthesized from older archived footage and projected onto the smart kitchen display during an unsupervised moment while Vanessa was in the pantry—pacing frantically across the floor, hands over her ears, screaming in simulated distress.
Vanessa stood in the foreground of the frame, looking exhausted, compassionate, and deeply concerned, shaking her head mournfully for the camera.
“See?” Vanessa’s accompanying text read. “It’s getting worse when you’re away, Daryl. We need to talk about the residential care option tonight when you call.”
I stared at the screen, a grim, humorless smile touching the corners of my mouth.
“She’s taking the bait hook, line, and sinker,” Caleb observed, looking over my shoulder at the text message. “She thinks she’s capturing undeniable proof for her medical dossier.”
“She’s capturing exactly what we programmed her to capture,” I replied.
I tapped out a reply to Vanessa, keeping my tone heavy, exhausted, and emotionally broken.
“I’m heartbroken, Vanessa. I don't know what to do anymore. Let’s talk tonight after my evening keynote lecture. If the specialist truly believes residential care is the only option to stabilize her, I’ll look at whatever paperwork is necessary.”
Within thirty seconds, Vanessa replied.
“Take your time, darling. We’ll figure it out together. Whatever is best for Nora’s health.”
Right behind that text, my phone buzzed with an encrypted notification from a secondary burner line. It was an intercepted audio intercept from the home’s hidden bug network.
Caleb hit play on the audio channel.
The tinny, amplified voice of Colin Mercer filled the command center, laughing triumphantly in my kitchen.
“She took the bait!” Colin crowed over the speaker. “That’s incident number five! Just one more recorded meltdown next week while he’s out of town, and we drop the heavy psychological report on him. He’ll sign over the Coronado trust administration rights in a heartbeat just to get the kid into a high-end facility.”
“And once the trust administration is transferred to my emergency proxy control,” Vanessa’s cool, calculating voice chimed in, “we list the Coronado estate for quick private sale. Five million cash upfront, split fifty-fifty within thirty days.”
“Easy money,” Colin laughed.
May you like
I listened to my wife and my cousin divvy up my late wife’s legacy over coffee and pastries while my daughter sat safely in a medical suite recovering from months of chemical poisoning.
“Caleb,” I said quietly, my voice dropping into an ice-cold register. “Let’s move up the timeline for the final act.”
