Chapter 2 - The House on Ocean Drive
The black armored Suburban tore through the rain-slicked coastal roads of the Hamptons at ninety miles an hour, its headlights cutting through the dense coastal fog like twin blades.
In the back seat, Lily and Rose slept soundly for the first time in weeks, their small heads resting against Veronica’s lap. The removal of the frequency generator had worked instantly; the oppressive invisible weight that had haunted their bedroom had vanished the moment the circuit board was snapped in half.
Veronica stroked Rose’s hair, looking out the tinted window. Up front, Rory drove himself. He hadn't called a driver. He hadn't notified his security captains. He drove with one hand gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were bloodless, and the other resting on the center console beside a heavy, matte-black Glock 19.
The silence in the vehicle was suffocating.
Veronica knew she was treading on dangerous ground. She was a household maid—a woman hired to scrub floors, wash linens, and keep her head down. By tearing open the teddy bear, she had crossed an invisible line that separated the staff from the syndicate. She had stepped directly into the bloody, subterranean world of the Starks family.
If Rory decided she knew too much, he could drop her on the side of the highway before sunrise, and no one would ever ask questions.
“You used to work in a hospital,” Rory said suddenly, his deep voice breaking the silence as he navigated a sharp turn toward the exclusive cliffs of Ocean Drive.
Veronica blinked, startled. “Yes, Mr. Starks. St. Jude’s Pediatric Ward in Queens. Three years as a nursing assistant before the budget cuts.”
“Why did you become a maid?”
“Nursing assistants make minimum wage, Mr. Starks. My younger brother needed specialized physical therapy after a hit-and-run driver left him paralyzed. Cleaning rich people’s toilets pays better than wiping sick children’s tears.”
Rory was quiet for a long moment. Then he spoke, his voice devoid of judgment.
“You didn't have to touch the bear. You could have walked away. Let the doctors give them more sleeping pills. Let the specialists write another useless report.”
“I’ve seen what happens when adults ignore what children are trying to tell them,” Veronica answered steadily. “A child doesn't scream like that for nothing. When they say the room is talking to them, you don't check their temperature. You check their environment.”
Rory glanced in the rearview mirror, his dark eyes locking onto hers for a fraction of a second.
“You’ve got more nerve than half my capos, Veronica.”
“Nerve doesn't pay my brother’s medical bills, sir.”
“Keep your mouth shut tonight, do exactly as I say, and I’ll pay your brother’s medical bills for the rest of his life.”
Veronica didn't answer immediately. She looked down at the sleeping twins, then back at the broad, rigid shoulders of the man leading them into the storm.
“Deal,” she said quietly.
The Suburban slowed down, turning sharply through a pair of wrought-iron gates half-hidden behind sprawling hedges of salt-battered hydrangeas.
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They had arrived at the sprawling, glass-and-stone modernist mansion owned by Arthur and Susan Thompson.
The house was completely dark, save for a single amber light glowing from the second-floor studio window.
