Chapter 1: The Woman Wearing Yellow Gloves
At 2:03 a.m., I stormed into my four-month-old twin daughters' nursery, ready to fire the sixth nanny I'd hired in less than three months.
But the moment I opened that door, I forgot every angry word I'd rehearsed.
My daughters were laughing.
Not crying. Not screaming. Not reaching desperately for someone to hold them.
Laughing.
And the woman making them laugh was wearing bright yellow kitchen gloves, dancing around their nursery like a complete lunatic.
"What the hell is going on in here?""
My voice startled her.
She spun around, nearly dropping a stuffed rabbit.
"Mr. Caruso!""
It was Elise Navarro, our newest nanny. Twelve days into the job, and already the longest-serving caregiver I'd managed to keep.
Her dark hair was tied into a messy bun. One yellow glove had slipped halfway down her wrist, and there was a small smear of something that looked suspiciously like baby food on her cheek.
"I'm sorry, sir!"" she stammered.
"I was just trying something.""
I stared at her.
Then I looked at the cribs.
Maisie was kicking her little legs, her cheeks flushed pink. Rosie was gripping her blanket, making delighted noises that sounded almost like hiccups.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen them this happy.
Since their mother died, the nursery had become the loudest room in my mansion.
Every night brought another round of screaming.
I'd hired experienced nurses, professional caregivers, and women recommended by expensive agencies. Five had quit. One had lasted only three days before telling my household manager that she couldn't handle the constant crying.
Elise was different.
She didn't complain about the sleepless nights. She didn't demand extra money. She didn't spend her shifts checking her phone.
But I had never seen her do anything like this.
"Why are they laughing?"" I asked.
Elise glanced at the twins.
"Because they like the ducks, sir.""
"What ducks?""
She raised both hands.
"These.""
She wiggled her gloved fingers.
"Quack, quack! Who stole my breakfast? Was it the tiny pink princesses?""
Rosie squealed.
Maisie responded with a little cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
I should have been annoyed.
Instead, something tightened inside my chest.
I recognized that routine.
The ridiculous duck noises. The little sideways dance. The way the imaginary duck complained about breakfast.
My wife used to do exactly that.
Isabella had invented the routine during the final months of her pregnancy. She'd danced around our kitchen wearing yellow cleaning gloves, insisting that our unborn daughters needed to learn how to laugh before they learned how to walk.
I'd laughed at her then.
I'd give anything to hear that laugh again.
"Elise.""
Her smile disappeared.
"Yes, sir?""
"Who taught you that?""
She slowly lowered her hands.
"Nobody.""
"Don't lie to me.""
"I'm not lying.""
"My wife used to do that exact dance.""
Elise looked toward the window.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Rosie stretched her tiny arms toward the nanny.
"Mama," she babbled.
My breath caught.
I stepped closer to the crib.
"Rosie?""
She reached toward Elise again.
"Mama!""
It wasn't a clear word. Babies made sounds without understanding them.
But it struck me like a bullet.
Elise quickly wiped her eyes.
"She does that sometimes.""
I turned.
"Sometimes?""
"Not every night. But when she's upset, she reaches for me and makes that sound.""
"Why didn't you tell me?""
Elise swallowed.
"Because I didn't think you'd want to hear it.""
I stared at her.
"What does that mean?""
She walked toward the small dresser and opened the top drawer.
From underneath a folded blanket, she retrieved a silver USB drive.
"Your wife left something for the girls.""
My fingers went cold.
"Where did you get that?""
"From Isabella.""
I grabbed the dresser to steady myself.
"That's impossible.""
Elise's eyes filled with tears.
"I was with her at the hospital.""
I stared at her.
"My wife died in that hospital.""
"I know what you were told, Mr. Caruso.""
"Then explain this.""
Elise placed the USB drive in my palm.
"She asked me to give it to you if she couldn't come home.""
Before I could respond, the nursery computer chimed.
Elise had already connected the drive.
A video appeared.
My wife was sitting in a hospital bed, holding two tiny babies.
Our daughters.
Her face was pale, but she was smiling.
"Dominic," she whispered into the camera.
"If you're watching this, something went terribly wrong.""
My knees weakened.
I reached for the chair.
Then Isabella's expression changed.
"There's something you need to know about our daughters' inheritance.""
She glanced toward the hospital door.
"And I don't trust your mother.""
The video shook.
A familiar voice came from somewhere outside the room.
"Isabella, put that phone away.""
My mother's voice.
The screen went black.
I turned toward Elise.
"What happened after that?""
She looked terrified.
"Your wife didn't die that night.""
I couldn't breathe.
Then she handed me another document.
A hospital transfer record.
The date was three days after Isabella's supposed death.
And the authorization signature belonged to my mother.
Before I could read another word, the nursery door opened.
Victoria Caruso stood in the doorway wearing her silk nightgown and diamond earrings.
Her eyes went straight to the USB drive.
Then to Elise.
"Dominic," she said quietly.
"Put that thing down.""
I looked at my mother.
For the first time in my life, she looked afraid of me.
"Mother," I said, holding up the hospital record.
"Why does this say my wife was transferred three days after you told me she died?""
Victoria's expression hardened.
"You're exhausted. Give me the document.""
"No.""
"Dominic, don't make a scene.""
I almost laughed.
A scene?
My wife had apparently been alive after her funeral, my mother had signed something authorizing her transfer, and she was worried about making a scene?
Elise stepped between us.
"Please don't let her take it.""
My mother slowly turned toward her.
"You ungrateful little girl.""
"Leave her out of this," I said.
Victoria looked at me as if I had slapped her.
"Do you understand what that woman is doing? She's manipulating you while you're grieving.""
"Then why are you afraid of a USB drive?""
For the first time, my mother had no immediate answer.
She walked toward the computer and reached for the keyboard.
I stepped in front of her.
"Don't.""
Her hand stopped.
Then she leaned close enough for only me to hear.
"Your wife made a terrible mistake, Dominic. Don't make the same one.""
She turned and left.
The nursery door clicked shut.
I looked down at the document again.
There was a destination listed beneath the transfer authorization.
A private rehabilitation facility outside Boston.
And beside the destination was a handwritten note.
*Patient must remain under restricted visitation. No contact with husband or children.*
My wife had not been buried.
She had been taken somewhere.
And my mother had made sure I never found out.
But the most disturbing part was the name of the person who had signed as the receiving physician.
Dr. Samuel Whitmore.
May you like
My father's personal physician.
A man who had supposedly died six years earlier.
