Chapter 2 - The Hidden Component Was Still Recording
The reception ended within minutes.
No one announced that it had ended.
Guests simply stopped pretending it was still a party.
Grant was helped into another chair while an emergency medical team examined him.
Derek remained several yards away under estate security supervision, holding a cold towel against his cheek.
He kept looking toward the wheelchair.
Grant noticed every time.
So did Evan.
The boy stayed near the terrace doors until one of the security men attempted to move him away.
Grant stopped him.
“The boy stays.”
Derek immediately looked up.
“Grant—”
Grant did not even turn toward him.
“The boy stays.”
That ended it.
A neurologist who had attended the reception as a guest examined Grant’s right leg.
“Move your toes.”
Grant stared downward.
Nothing happened.
Then the smallest twitch.
His second toe shifted.
Grant’s face changed.
“Again,” the doctor said.
Grant concentrated.
Another movement.
Weak.
Incomplete.
Real.
Derek spoke from behind them.
“That doesn’t mean anything. He’s had spasms before.”
Grant turned slowly.
“I have?”
Derek hesitated.
“You told me.”
“No.”
Silence.
Grant’s dark eyes stayed on him.
“I told you I had pain.”
Derek adjusted the towel against his face.
“That’s what I meant.”
Grant knew Derek well enough to recognize a correction disguised as clarification.
The wheelchair was moved into a locked ground-floor study.
No one touched the hidden component until a medical-equipment technician arrived.
Evan stood near the doorway.
Grant sat in a temporary transport chair while the technician opened the side housing.
The component was small.
Black.
Commercially manufactured.
No exposed wires.
Nothing dramatic.
The technician examined it.
“This isn’t part of the chair.”
Grant looked toward Evan.
The boy said nothing.
“What does it do?” Grant asked.
“I need to verify the model.”
“Can it stop my legs from moving?”
The technician shook his head almost immediately.
“Not from where it’s installed.”
Derek’s eyes lifted.
Grant saw.
The technician continued.
“It appears to be some kind of motion logger.”
Grant’s expression hardened.
“A what?”
“A device that records movement or pressure changes.”
The room became silent.
Grant looked down at his legs.
Then toward the wheelchair.
Someone had hidden a device inside the chair.
But not to cause paralysis.
To measure something.
Evan stepped closer.
“That’s what I meant.”
Grant looked at him.
“When you said the chair wasn’t the problem?”
Evan nodded.
The technician removed the component carefully and sealed it for further examination.
Then he looked inside the housing again.
“There are marks here.”
“What marks?”
“Someone opened this panel more than once.”
Grant looked toward Derek.
Derek’s jaw tightened.
“You’re looking at me because some kid crawled under your chair?”
Grant ignored the insult.
“How long has that been in there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve been handling this chair every day.”
“So?”
“You arranged the delivery.”
Derek laughed once.
“Because you asked me to.”
Grant remembered.
Three weeks earlier, when he had come home from the hospital unable to move his legs reliably, Derek took over almost everything.
Wheelchair.
Therapy schedule.
Transportation.
Medication pickup.
Household staff.
Grant had allowed it because he was exhausted.
Because Derek was family.
Because Derek kept saying:
“Stop fighting everyone who’s trying to help you.”
Grant looked toward the sealed black component.
Then he asked the technician:
“If this recorded movement, would it show when my leg started moving?”
“Possibly.”
Grant’s gaze shifted back to Derek.
The fear on Derek’s face at the terrace suddenly made much more sense.
Someone had hidden a device designed to know when Grant began moving.
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The next question was obvious.
Why would anyone need to know before Grant did?
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