He turned and saw his wife, Victoria Halvorsen, standing in the doorway of the master bedroom. She wore a silk robe that shimmered under the ceiling lights, her hair styled perfectly despite the hour. Her expression was tired but controlled, the kind of tired that came from irritation rather than concern.
“Can you hear that,” Christopher asked quietly, his voice strained. “There is a baby crying inside this wall.”
Victoria exhaled slowly, as if speaking to a stubborn child.
“It is probably the ventilation system echoing sound from Oliver’s monitor. These smart houses do strange things at night.”
“No,” Christopher replied firmly. “Oliver is asleep. I checked twice. This sound is coming from here.”
Victoria walked closer, her bare feet making no sound on the marble. She leaned in and placed her ear against the wall where he pointed. At first her face was neutral. Then something flickered in her eyes. Fear. Recognition. It disappeared quickly, replaced by a forced smile.
“It must be pipes,” she said. “Water moving through them sometimes creates strange noises.”
“This house is only six years old,” Christopher answered, his patience thinning. “The pipes do not cry like a baby.”