Chapter 3 - The Inside of the Beast
The nursery was dead silent except for the soft, rhythmic breathing of Lily and Rose sleeping soundly on the bed.
Rory sat down in the wooden rocking chair under the amber glow of the bedside lamp. He placed the golden-brown teddy bear upright on his lap.
He looked at its innocent black button eyes and the cheerful blue ribbon tied around its neck. It looked like any other comforting gift given by a loving aunt.
Susan Whitmore had always played the part of the devoted, grieving aunt. After Claire died in that tragic highway collision three years ago, Susan had been a frequent visitor to the estate, bringing toys, clothes, and comfort to the motherless twins.
Why would Susan want to drive my children insane? Rory thought, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the handle of the scissors.
"Be careful around the center seam," Maeve whispered, kneeling beside his chair with a flashlight. "That’s usually where the housing unit is stitched."
Rory slid the sharp blade of the scissors into the fabric beneath the bear’s left arm.
Rrrrrip.
The sound of tearing golden plush sounded shockingly loud in the quiet room. Rory peeled back the synthetic outer fur. Beneath it lay layers of dense polyester batting. He pulled the stuffing away in thick clumps, dropping it onto the wooden floor.
His fingers brushed against something hard and cold.
It wasn't cotton. It wasn't stuffing.
It was a small, sleek, rectangular black plastic module, no larger than a matchbox, wired directly to a miniature lithium-ion battery and a tiny silver speaker cone glued against the bear’s internal spine.
Rory pulled the device out into the light.
Attached to the plastic module was a microscopic antenna and a digital memory card stamped with a serial number.
"A micro-recorder and localized frequency transmitter," Maeve whispered, her amber eyes wide with shock as she inspected the device in Rory's palm. "It doesn't just play a sound. It records everything said in this room 24 hours a day... and it plays a targeted binaural frequency designed to trigger sensory overload and chronic insomnia in young children."
Rory stared at the tiny black box in his hand.
The tattooed hands that had built an empire worth billions began to tremble—not with fear, but with a cold, terrifying, apocalyptic rage.
For fifty-six nights, his daughters had been tortured in their own beds. For fifty-six nights, doctors had blamed stress, therapists had blamed grief, and he had sat helplessly by their pillows while an invisible weapon manufactured by someone inside his own family slowly drove his children out of their minds.
"Susan," Rory growled, his voice sounding like grinding stone.
"Not just her," Maeve said quietly, pointing a finger at a tiny embossed logo on the side of the plastic module. "Look at the manufacturer mark. That’s proprietary military-grade surveillance hardware. You can't buy that at a toy store, Mr. Starks. That’s commercial-industrial espionage grade."
Rory stood up so fast his chair tipped backward and crashed against the floor.
He didn't care about the noise. He walked across the nursery, his dark eyes burning with absolute death.
"Maeve," Rory commanded, his voice dropping into the absolute, ironclad authority of the Don of New York's waterfront. "Lock the nursery door. Do not let anyone in—not my security chief, not my cook, no one. Stay with my daughters."
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"Where are you going, Mr. Starks?" Maeve asked, standing up as she saw the lethal expression on his face.
"To find out who else in my family thinks they can play games with my blood," Rory said, slipping the black module into his pocket as he strode out the door.
