“She’s lazy,” Rebecca muttered one night. “She just sits in the dark for hours. And who knows—maybe she’s stealing Isabella’s jewelry. You should be careful.”
Grief and suspicion twisted together. I spent over $100,000 installing advanced infrared cameras throughout the house. I didn’t tell Maya. I wanted proof.
For two weeks, I avoided the footage, burying myself in work. Then one stormy Tuesday at three in the morning, unable to sleep, I opened the live feed on my tablet.
I expected to see her asleep.
I expected to catch her snooping.
Instead, I stopped breathing.
On the screen, Maya sat on the nursery floor between the cribs. She wasn’t resting. She was holding Lucas—skin to skin against her chest—rocking him slowly, the way Isabella once did to steady his breathing. And then I heard it.
She was humming.
It was Isabella’s lullaby. The one she had written for the twins before she died. It had never been recorded. No one else should have known it.
Then the nursery door opened.
Rebecca entered, holding a silver dropper. She walked straight to Noah’s crib and began dripping a clear liquid into his bottle.
Maya stood, clutching Lucas. Her voice was calm but unyielding.