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“No, Dad! Please! It hurts! It hurts!” he cried.
James, exhausted and impatient, saw only misbehavior.
He locked the door and walked away, unaware that someone had been watching.
Clara, the new nanny, stood quietly in the shadows. Gray-haired, gentle, and wise from years of experience, she had no formal degrees but knew the difference between a spoiled child and one in genuine distress. She had noticed the signs from the beginning: Leo’s fear at bedtime, his attempts to sleep anywhere but his bed, the small marks on his skin that Victoria, James’s fiancée, always dismissed.
“Probably a fabric allergy,” Victoria would say. “Or he scratches in his sleep.”
But Clara knew better.
That night, as Leo’s soft sobs leaked through the locked door, Clara made a decision. She waited until the house was quiet, the footsteps had faded, and the mansion had settled into its usual creaks. Then she took her small flashlight, unlocked Leo’s room with the master key, and stepped inside.
The sight broke her heart. Leo was curled in a corner of the bed, knees pulled to his chest, hands clamped over his ears, face red and marked.
“Leo,” Clara whispered, softly. “It’s me. Grandma Clara.”
His relief was immediate.
Not itches. Not uncomfortable. It bites.
Clara knelt beside him and stroked his hair. She gently pressed her hand onto the pillow—and felt sharp pain, like hundreds of tiny needles. Blood appeared on her skin.
Inside that beautiful silk pillow was a trap.
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