My sister in law, Felicia Barnes, moved into the penthouse soon after the funeral. She wore grief like theater, arriving with black silk dresses, expensive perfume, and a voice that always sounded just a little too smooth. She said she wanted to help with the babies, to give them family, to help me manage my life. She was Brielle’s older sister, and I believed I owed her trust.
Grace joined us a month later. She was a quiet nursing student who answered an agency posting for night infant care. She was young, careful with her words, and almost invisible in a house built for spectacle. She asked only for a small room near the nursery and permission to stay with the twins during nights. It seemed harmless. I agreed without much thought.
Felicia disliked her immediately.
One evening during dinner Felicia leaned toward me and said, “She sits in the nursery in the dark for hours. It is strange behavior, Trevor. You never know what kind of people you invite into your home.”
I frowned but dismissed it. Grace had been gentle with the babies, especially Isaiah. His screaming softened whenever she held him. Still, seeds of suspicion were planted, watered by grief and sleeplessness.