“Enough, Liam,” she snapped. “Stop crying or I’ll tape your mouth again.”
I froze.
My mind refused to accept what I was hearing.
Vanessa had worked for us nearly two years. I paid her more than most families would ever consider. Last Christmas, I had even helped her with the down payment on a car.
We trusted her.
I moved quietly down the hallway, slipping off my shoes so my steps made no sound against the marble floor.
When I reached the living room, I stayed behind a curtain and looked inside.
What I saw drained the warmth from my body.
Liam.
My twelve-year-old son.
Born with cerebral palsy.
He sat in his titanium wheelchair—but ropes had been wrapped across his chest, pinning him tightly against the frame.
His wrists were tied to the armrests.
His ankles were bound so tightly that the skin bulged around the cords.
He wasn’t even crying anymore.
His small body shook with quiet tremors.
His head hung forward in exhausted defeat.
Vanessa stood beside him, flipping casually through a magazine.
She glanced down at him with open disgust.
“Look at you,” she sneered. “Crying again. Your father isn’t coming to save you. He’s too busy making money.”
She laughed softly.