Two under the pillow. Three inside his backpack. One behind a row of picture books.

The rain provided perfect cover as Elena slipped through the wrought-iron gate at the rear of the Mercer estate.

She moved like a ghost through the overgrown gardens, avoiding the main pathway where security cameras scanned the perimeter. Her boots sank into the damp earth, but she paid no attention to the mud or the freezing rain soaking through her coat.

The guest cottage was dark, shrouded by thick pine trees. A single, dim yellow light flickered from a small basement window near the rear foundation.

Elena crouched beneath the window, listening intently.

Inside, the faint, rhythmic hum of a heart monitor echoed against concrete walls. Then, a sharp, cold voice broke the silence.

“Drink it, Maya. Don't make me call your grandmother.”

Elena peered through the muddy glass.

Inside a small, windowless room, a young girl sat on the edge of a narrow twin bed. She looked no older than seven, with long, matted dark hair that fell over a pale, gaunt face. She wore a simple white hospital gown, her thin frame shivering despite the space heater humming in the corner.

Standing over her was a woman in a grey nurse’s uniform, holding a small plastic cup filled with a thick, milky liquid.

“It tastes bad,” the little girl whispered, her voice trembling. “It makes my tummy burn.”

“It’s your medicine,” the nurse said sternly, grabbing the girl’s chin with a gloved hand. “If you don't take it, Mrs. Mercer will stop paying for your paints. Do you want your drawing pads taken away?”

The girl’s lips quivered. She slowly reached out her small, frail hand and took the cup, swallowing the liquid with a grimace.

Elena felt a tear cut through the rain on her face. The child had David’s eyes—the exact same warm, almond-shaped brown eyes that Elena had fallen in love with years ago. This was Maya Mercer, the forgotten child of her late husband.

Suddenly, the heavy wooden door at the top of the cottage stairs creaked open. Heavy footsteps descended into the room.

Margaret Mercer stepped into the light, dressed in an immaculate cashmere coat, holding a leather folder.

“How is she, Nurse Hayes?” Margaret asked, not even bothering to look directly at the little girl on the bed.

“Vitals are low, as instructed,” the nurse replied, standing at attention. “The mild sedative keeps her docile. She hasn't attempted to go near the windows in months.”

“Good,” Margaret said coldly, opening the folder. “Dr. Thorne is finalizing the paperwork for Noah tomorrow. Once the court designates Noah as mentally unfit due to Elena’s 'parental neglect,' I will assume full custody of both children. We will transfer Maya to the Willowridge basement wing permanently.”

Maya looked up, her small voice terrified. “Grandma... can I see the boy in the picture again? The one you said is my brother?”

Margaret looked down at the girl with pure disdain. “He is not your brother, Maya. He is a distraction. And you do not speak unless spoken to.”

Outside the window, Elena pressed her hand against her mouth to smother a scream of rage.

She pulled out her smartphone, holding it steady against the glass. The camera recorded everything: Margaret’s cold directives, the nurse enforcing the illegal sedatives, and the frail, terrified child sitting on the bed.