Chapter 13 - SOMEONE ELSE WAS WATCHING
Marcus locked the doors.
“Everybody stay inside.”
Michael pulled the curtains shut.
Sarah held Olivia.
“Who sent that?”
Stallone studied the photograph.
The angle came from the east garden.
Near the old oak trees.
Marcus grabbed his jacket.
“I’m checking the property.”
“No,” Stallone said.
Marcus frowned.
“You hired me for security.”
“And I’m not sending you alone.”
Michael stepped forward.
“Dad—”
“Stay with the kids.”
Stallone and Marcus moved outside.
The rain had started again.
The east garden lights cast long shadows across the wet grass.
Marcus found footprints near the hedge.
Fresh.
Large.
A vehicle had been parked near the service road.
Stallone’s phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Hello?”
A male voice said:
“You should’ve left this alone.”
“Who is this?”
“You ruined Eleanor.”
Stallone’s blood chilled.
“Where are you?”
The man laughed.
“You still think this is about one old woman?”
The call ended.
Marcus looked at him.
“Who?”
Stallone shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Then he remembered.
Years earlier, Eleanor had hired a private family consultant.
Thomas Vane.
He called himself a behavioral specialist.
He had advised Eleanor on “discipline systems” for Ethan.
Stallone had met him twice.
Something about the man had always bothered him.
Stallone pulled out his phone.
He called Eleanor.
She answered after six rings.
“What do you want?”
“Who is Thomas Vane?”
Silence.
“Eleanor.”
“He helped me.”
“With what?”
“Structure.”
“What did he tell you to do?”
Her breathing changed.
“Why?”
“Did he tell you to use the basement room?”
Another silence.
Stallone felt sick.
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
Marcus heard.
His face hardened.
Eleanor continued.
“He said children with emotional behavior need controlled isolation.”
Stallone closed his eyes.
“And Ethan standing outside?”
“He suggested discomfort creates emotional regulation.”
“My God.”
Stallone looked toward the house.
“Where did you find him?”
“A parenting group.”
“What parenting group?”
Eleanor whispered the name.
Marcus immediately searched it.
His expression changed.
“It’s an online network.”
Stallone looked over.
Marcus scrolled.
“Private membership. No professional credentials listed.”
He kept reading.
“Sir…”
“What?”
“There are complaints.”
“How many?”
“Dozens.”
Former members described coercive punishments.
Isolation.
Sleep deprivation.
Humiliation.
Children forced to discipline siblings.
It wasn’t Eleanor’s invention.
Someone had reinforced everything broken inside her and sold it back as expertise.
That did not erase her choices.
But it widened the danger.
A twig snapped behind them.
Marcus spun.
A man stood near the garage.
Tall.
Gray coat.
Phone raised.
Taking photographs.
“Hey!”
The man ran.
Marcus chased him.
Stallone followed.
The stranger jumped the garden wall.
Marcus caught his coat.
They crashed into the wet grass.
The man swung at him.
Marcus blocked it.
Stallone reached them seconds later.
The stranger stared up.
Stallone recognized him.
Thomas Vane.
Vane smiled.
“Mr. Bennett.”
Marcus pinned his arms.
Stallone stared.
“Why are you watching my family?”
Vane’s smile widened.
“Because Eleanor promised me something.”
“What?”
Vane looked toward the house.
“Access.”
Stallone’s stomach dropped.
“To what?”
May you like
Vane whispered:
“To Olivia.”
