Page 25 of Knot The Nanny We Planned

Her voice doesn't waver. It's flat, controlled, the voice of someone who has practiced being okay when they're not. I know that voice. I've used that voice. I used it at Mara's funeral when I stood in front of a coffin that was too small and read a eulogy I'd written at 3 AM while JD held my shoulder and Knox sat in the back row, unable to look at the casket.

That voice means I'm falling apart and I will die before I let you see it.

She disappears into Lily's room. The door closes with a soft click.

Knox turns to me. JD turns to me. They both have the same question in their eyes, and I feel the familiar weight of being the one who notices things, the one who figures things out, the one who reads the data and finds the pattern.

"What the hell happened at the park?" Knox says.

I push off the doorway. "I don't know. But I'm going to find out."

"Deklan, " JD starts.

"I'll handle it."

I walk away before he can argue. Not because I don't respect him, JD is the closest thing to a brother I'll ever have, blood or otherwise, but because this requires a different approach. JD leads with authority. Knox leads with charm. I lead with precision.

And right now, precision means paying attention.

I go to my office first. Not because I have work to do, though I do, mountains of it, the financial models for the Blaine Capital acquisition won't build themselves, but because I need to think. I sit at my desk, put on my glasses, and pull up the security feed on my laptop.

The penthouse building has comprehensive security. Cameras in the lobby, the garage, the elevators, the common areas. Not the private residences, we're not animals, but enough to track who comes and goes.

I scroll through the footage from this morning. Willow leaving with Lily at 9:15. I can't track her to Eastwood Park, but I can track her return. 10:45. The elevator opening. Her face on the camera feed.

Even in grainy security footage, I can see it. The brightness in her eyes when she left, nervous, hopeful, a little raw from the morning's encounters. And the flatness when she returned. The dead look. The tight mouth.

Something happened at that park.

I pull up my phone and check the GPS tracker on the SUV. Eastwood Park. 9:32 AM arrival. 10:38 AM departure. One hour and six minutes. Normal duration for a morning outing with a toddler.

But the park is public. Anyone could have found her there.

I open a new browser tab and search for Serena Vance.

Not Vance anymore. Serena Aldrich, née Vance, formerly contracted to the Blaine-Dixon-Kros household through the Omega Nanny agency. I pull up her file, the one I compiled when JD first mentioned using the service. Twenty-nine years old. Omega. Matched to JD only, a single match, weaker than a triple, prone to fading over time. She'd been with us for four months. Shared our bed. Shared our home.

And then she wanted more, and we couldn't give it to her.

Because it wasn't real. Not with her. The match was convenient, comfortable, but it was never the all-consuming, bone-deep connection the agency promised. She was never ours. Not really.

And she knew it. That was the worst part. She knew it, and she stayed anyway, hoping it would grow into something it couldn't. When we ended the contract, she screamed at JD for an hour, threw a vase at Knox, and sent me a fourteen-page email outlining every way I'd failed as a Beta partner.

I read every word. She wasn't wrong.

I pull up Serena's current location data. I shouldn't have access to it, the agency's privacy protocols are strict, but I'm a Beta with a talent for systems and a complete inability to let things go. A few well-placed queries in the agency's database, and there it is.

Serena Aldrich. Credit card activity. A coffee shop on Eastwood Avenue. 9:47 AM this morning.

Eastwood Avenue. Three blocks from Eastwood Park.

My blood goes cold. She was there. Serena was at the same park, at the same time, as Willow.

Coincidence? Not a chance. Serena has never been to Eastwood Park in her life. She's a woman who frequents rooftop bars and Michelin-starred restaurants. She doesn't do playgrounds.

She went there for Willow.

I close my laptop, remove my glasses, and set them on the desk with careful, deliberate precision. And then I press my fists against the desktop and let the rage come.