Chapter 1
The notification popped up on my phone at 6:00 AM while I was pouring my first cup of dark roast in the kitchen.
Our bedroom quick clean completed at 2:13 AM.
Initiated by: Leo.
I stared at the glowing screen, my pulse giving an uneasy flutter.
I had just finished a grueling twelve-hour night shift in the hospital ICU.
Why was my eleven-year-old running the robot vacuum in our bedroom at two in the morning?
When Leo came downstairs for school twenty minutes later, his feet dragged against the hardwood.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes.
He looked pale, small, and anxious, his hands fidgeting frantically with the fabric straps of his backpack.
"Leo, sweetie," I asked gently, showing him my phone screen. "Did you accidentally press the vacuum button on your tablet last night?"
Leo froze on the bottom step. All the color drained from his face.
"I—I..." Leo stammered, his chin trembling. "I was playing on my tablet, Mom. I hit the wrong button. I'm sorry."
"Hey, no one's mad, buddy," Sullivan's smooth, warm voice cut in.
My husband strolled into the bright kitchen, wearing a tailored charcoal suit, smelling of expensive sandalwood cologne.
He reached out and lightly patted Leo's shoulder, squeezing it with practiced affection.
"He's eleven, Hollis," Sullivan chuckled easily, kissing my cheek.
His lips touched my skin—warm, familiar, and comforting. The same mouth that had kissed me goodbye every morning for twelve years.
"He plays with every app we give him," Sullivan added. "Don't interrogate him before he's even had his cereal. You know how tired you get after those ICU shifts—you're seeing ghosts."
I looked at Sullivan's handsome, perfect face. When I worked overtime, I often felt guilty for leaving him to handle the house alone.
He was the kind of father who stayed up all night when Leo had fevers as a toddler, who spent weekends building science kits with him.
Maybe I was simply paranoid, I thought, pressing a tired hand to my head. Maybe I was exhausted.
Then my phone chimed again with another notification from the vacuum app:
Obstacle Photo Saved.
I tapped the thumbnail. The app displayed a clear photo taken by the vacuum's front camera on the hardwood floor beside my nightstand at 2:14 AM.
Sitting beside our bed was a pair of bright red patent-leather high heels—shoes I had never owned in my life.
And in the corner of the frame, captured in vivid detail, Leo was on his knees.
His small arm was outstretched, desperately grabbing the red shoes and pushing them deep beneath a pile of towels in my closet before the camera could snap another picture.
The warm kitchen suddenly felt ice cold.
"Leo," I asked, my voice barely above a whisper as I turned my screen toward him. "Whose shoes were you hiding?"
Leo's knees visibly trembled. He looked up at Sullivan, his throat tightening.
"Dad said to put them away before you got home," Leo squeaked out, his eyes welling up. "He said they'd only make you worry."