That evening, Maren found Toby clutching his dinosaur plush, the small toy truck resting nearby. Sophie, the little girl, pressed close. “She’s scary,” she whispered.
“I know,” Maren said softly. “But we’ll watch her back.”
As the weeks passed, Maren built a meticulous record of Celia’s true identity and dangerous history. Every misstep, every hidden object, every fearful glance from the children became evidence. She knew Celia would escalate, but she was ready.
One morning, Maren discovered a locked closet in the east wing and quietly pried it open. Inside, a dusty trunk contained a third silver hairpin, identical to the others, and an old file documenting a sealed child custody case from Argentina. Maren realized then the pattern was global: every child Celia had touched, every alias she had assumed, left a mark.
“Miss Maren?” Sophie appeared, holding another faded photograph. This one showed a girl in a sunny courtyard, smiling faintly, with Celia behind her, as possessive and cold as ever.
Maren took the image, her hands steady despite the racing of her heart. “You did well, Sophie. We’ll keep you and Toby safe.”