The giant screen showed the hidden studio from a high corner near the air vent. Bree sat beneath the lamp, wearing my sapphire necklace and rocking the swaddled infant.
The bottles on the kitchenette counter and the secret door were both visible. Jane’s tech team added a title at the bottom: *LIVE FEED: SECRET NURSERY, JONES ESTATE.*
People began raising their phones. Reporters moved toward the stage.
Zane turned to the screen. “That’s a fabrication! A deepfake. She made it!”
The screen changed to grainy, time-stamped security footage from the top of our grand staircase. The date was two months ago, the day I lost my son.
Zane walked into frame and checked both ends of the hall. He opened a clear bottle and poured a thin line of oil over the polished wood of the top two steps.
It spr
