Chapter 4 - The Attic Discovery
Inspector Marcus Vance arrived forty minutes later, accompanied by two crime scene technicians carrying metal cases and forensic dusting kits.
Vance was a veteran investigator with salt-and-pepper hair and an expression that suggested he had seen every variety of human depravity and corporate greed New England had to offer. He spent twenty minutes examining the micro-lens in the nursery wall, the braided cabling, and the small junction box hidden beneath the floorboards before walking out into the hallway where I stood waiting.
“Well, Mr. Whitaker,” Vance said, flipping his leather notebook shut with a crisp snap. “This wasn't installed by a casual prowler. Whoever put this in had architectural blueprints of this exact wing. They knew where the load-bearing studs were, where the electrical lines ran, and how to tap into a secondary power source without tripping your smart-home breaker panels.”
“It dates back to the renovation,” I stated, leaning my shoulder against the corridor wall. “Eighteen months ago. Before we even knew Claire was pregnant with the triplets.”
Vance raised a sharp eyebrow. “Before the pregnancy? That’s interesting. Most corporate espionage targets executives at their offices, not in their private nurseries. Unless whoever planted this wasn't looking for business secrets... or unless they knew something about your household timeline that you didn't.”
The words hung in the air like a cold draft.
I pushed off the wall. “What are you implying, Inspector?”
“I’m not implying anything yet, Mr. Whitaker. I’m just looking at the timeline.” Vance motioned toward the attic pull-down stairs at the end of the hallway. “Can we access the upper crawlspace from here? The cabling runs vertically upward. I want to see where it terminates.”
Ten minutes later, Carter, Vance, and I stood in the dark, dusty expanse of the attic, our flashlights cutting through swirling plumes of fiberglass insulation and undisturbed dust.
The attic had been partitioned years ago into a storage area, but deep in the far eastern corner, tucked behind a row of empty holiday decoration boxes, we found what we were looking for.
A small, low-profile black metal housing unit—a remote digital transmitter and data recorder—sat bolted to the roof rafter. A thick nest of cables connected it to a high-capacity lithium battery backup and a cellular relay antenna protruding discreetly through a modified roof vent.
“It’s a closed-loop transmission system,” Carter murmured, shining his light over the unit. “It doesn't rely on your home Wi-Fi network. It streams data via an encrypted cellular signal directly to an external receiver.”
Vance knelt beside the unit, slipping a pair of sterile latex gloves onto his hands. He inspected a small sticker affixed to the side of the metal casing.
“Look at this serial number,” Vance said, pointing his penlight at the faded bar code.
I leaned closer. The label bore a corporate logo I recognized instantly—not Cross Atlantic Shipping, but a subsidiary maintenance firm called Apex Facilities Management.
And beneath the logo, scrawled in faint black permanent marker, was a date stamp: March 14, two years prior.
That was the exact month my marriage to my first wife had dissolved, and the exact month I had purchased this estate as a fresh start before meeting my current wife, Elena.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
May you like
“Vance,” I said, my voice strained. “Who owned Apex Facilities Management two years ago?”
Vance looked up from the equipment, his eyes grim. “It was a wholly owned asset of the Cross family trust. Registered under the direct management of Mrs. Vivian Cross.”
