Chapter 2 - FOUR YEARS OF MIDNIGHT
At 2:11 A.M., nobody in Dominic Moretti's mansion was allowed to leave.
That included me.
Mercer objected.
Dominic ignored him.
Every guard surrendered his phone. Every security terminal was disconnected from the outside network. The mansion's physician was summoned from his home.
And I sat at a twelve-foot dining table holding a towel around my bleeding palm while Chicago's most feared crime boss stared at a black receiver as though it had personally betrayed him.
“How long could that have been installed?” he asked.
“Years.”
“Four?”
“Possibly.”
That answer hit him harder than I expected.
His doctor arrived twenty minutes later.
Dr. Samuel Hall was in his late fifties, expensive coat, expensive watch, expensive expression.
He checked Dominic immediately.
Then he looked at me.
“You entered during the seizure?”
“Yes.”
“That was extremely dangerous.”
“For whom?”
His mouth tightened.
Dominic leaned against the dining table.
“Explain why the episode stopped after she destroyed the floodlight.”
Hall hesitated.
“Photosensitive responses are possible in some patients, but your condition has never presented that way.”
“Did you ever test for it?”
Another pause.
“No.”
I stared.
Dominic noticed.
“You treated me for four years and never tested whether flashing light was involved?”
“Your symptoms were inconsistent.”
“Apparently not inconsistent enough for my electrician.”
Mercer stepped forward.
“This is becoming ridiculous.”
I looked at him.
“Then give me the lighting logs.”
He froze.
“What logs?”
“The smart controller records commands.”
I watched his face carefully.
“So either the light was activated automatically, locally, or through a network account.”
Dominic looked at Mercer.
“Get them.”
Mercer sent a technician downstairs.
Five minutes later, the technician returned looking nervous.
“The logs are gone.”
Dominic's expression hardened.
“Gone how?”
“Deleted.”
“When?”
The technician swallowed.
“Tonight.”
Nobody moved.
Mercer immediately said, “Anyone could have accessed the system.”
I shook my head.
“Not remotely if your network is configured the way your technician described.”
Dominic looked at me.
“What does that mean?”
“It means whoever deleted those logs was probably inside this house.”
The doctor's phone suddenly rang.
He glanced at the screen.
Then declined the call.
I noticed.
So did Dominic.
“Who was that?”
“My wife.”
“Show me.”
Hall looked offended.
“Dominic—”
“Show me.”
Reluctantly, he turned the screen around.
The incoming caller wasn't his wife.
The contact name said only:
C.M.
Mercer went completely still.
Dominic looked from the doctor to his security chief.
Dr. Hall's face drained of color.
Then the security technician interrupted.
“Mr. Moretti, there may still be a backup.”
Everyone turned.
“The lighting company stores diagnostic data for thirty days before overwriting it.”
“Get it.”
The technician opened the cloud archive.
Rows of timestamps appeared.
I leaned closer.
There were dozens of activation records.
Always after midnight.
Always from the same internal credential.
And every date matched one of Dominic's documented seizures.
Dominic stared at the username.
CM-01.
Mercer laughed once.
“That proves nothing.”
Maybe.
Until the technician explained what CM meant.
Caleb Mercer.
Account number one.
May you like
And that was when Dominic discovered his seizures hadn't merely been predicted by the man protecting him.
For four years, they had been scheduled from Mercer's account.
