Chapter 3 - The Phantom NannyThe morning sun did nothing to warm the chill in Owen's bones. He had spent the remaining hours of the night tearing through the filing cabinet. The files Celia had photographed pertained to Sarah’s life insurance policy and the police report from her fatal car crash.
Owen slammed his hands on his desk. He needed answers. He picked up his phone and dialed his private investigator, Marcus Vance, a former detective who owed Owen a favor.
"Marcus, I need you to run a deep background check on Celia Voss. Fast," Owen demanded the second the call connected.
"The nanny? I already vetted her six months ago, Owen. Clean record, stellar references from the Hamptons. What’s going on?"
"She’s a ghost, Marcus. I caught her abusing Mara on camera, and then I caught her picking the lock to my safe. Dig deeper. The references, the social security number, everything."
Four hours later, Marcus was sitting in Owen’s living room, dropping a thin manila folder onto the glass coffee table. The investigator looked grim.
"You were right, man," Marcus said, leaning forward. "Celia Voss doesn't exist. The woman you hired assumed the identity of a deceased infant from Ohio. The social security number was a ghost file. Her references? Burner phones and shell companies. The agency you used to hire her was a front that dissolved three days after she signed your contract."
Owen stared at the folder, his stomach twisting into knots. "So who was living in my house with my daughter for half a year?"
Marcus pulled out a glossy 8x10 photograph and slid it across the table. "I ran her face through a facial recognition database used by federal agencies. Her real name is Elena Rostova. She’s not a nanny, Owen. She’s a corporate espionage specialist. High-end. Dangerous. She usually works for offshore tech rivals to steal proprietary data. But here’s the kicker..."
Marcus paused, rubbing his jaw. "Her last known employer was a shell company tied to the truck driver who hit your wife's car last year."
The air left Owen’s lungs. The room spun.
Sarah’s death hadn’t been an accident. It was a hit. And the people who ordered it had planted Elena—"Celia"—in his home to finish the job, or find whatever Sarah had left behind.
"Dad?"
Owen and Marcus whipped around. Mara was standing at the top of the stairs, clutching her stuffed rabbit. She looked pale, her dark eyes wide with fear.
"What is it, sweetie?" Owen asked, forcing a calm tone, rushing to the bottom of the stairs.
"The lady," Mara whispered, pointing a trembling finger toward the large bay window in the living room. "The lady is in the garden."
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Owen turned. Standing at the edge of the tree line, barely concealed by the afternoon shadows, was Celia. She was holding up a piece of paper. Pressed against the glass from the outside, the bold black marker was impossible to misread:
YOUR TURN.
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