11. False Optics
Chapter eleven
False Optics
The midday sun spilled across the vast expanse of the kitchen island, casting a harsh glare against the white marble.
I stood on one side of the counter, sorting through a scattered pile of prototype baby onesies.
Directly opposite me, Naomi ran her fingernails over the soft cotton sleeves.
A few feet away, Marcus circled us in a slow, practiced arc, the quiet whir of his camera lens blending into the hum of the refrigerator.
“Take half a step to your left, Juniper,” Marcus said. “The window glare is washing out the contrast on the fabrics.”
I shifted my weight, my boots scraping lightly against the tile. “Is that better?” I asked. “I don’t want the pastel dyes to look faded on screen.”
“Much better,” Marcus replied, his eye pressed to the viewfinder. “Just keep the movements natural.”
Since my precautionary overnight stay at the clinic two days ago, Warren and Naomi had dialed their suffocating devotion up to ten.
It took everything I had not to flinch whenever they stepped too close.
Now, I had to stand across from the woman actively pricing out my coffin and pick out clothing for the baby she intended to steal.
Naomi pushed a stack of white shirts aside. She looked up, her expression softening into tender concern. “You keep shifting your feet, Junie. We can pull up a stool if your back is acting up again.”
“I’m fine,” I said, my voice steady. “I just want to get through these color palettes before we lose the natural light.”
I reached for a pile of garments, forcing my hands to stop trembling.
Watching her coo over these tiny clothes for the rolling camera sickened me.
I struggled for a moment to pry the stiff metal snaps apart.
The resistance frustrated me, and I pressed my palms flat against the cold edge of the marble countertop to steady them.
Naomi reached across the island and touched the sleeve of the green jumper I held. “This green one is absolutely precious,” she said, flashing a brilliant smile for the lens. “It’s going to match her eyes perfectly. We definitely need this in the finalized lineup.”
You don’t even know what color her eyes will be, I thought, staring at her glossed lips.
I looked down at the jumper, twisting the neckline to inspect the seams. “I think the snaps on the collar are a bit stiff,” I said, forcing a lighthearted, professional tone. “But the fabric is great. What do you think about the sizing, Marcus? Is it translating well on camera?”
Marcus lowered the rig an inch, adjusting his focus ring. “It looks great. The colors pop nicely against the white counter. Just pretend I’m not here.”
I traced my thumb over the small metal snap.
The live microphone clipped to Naomi’s blouse transmitted every sweet, supportive word directly to the encrypted hard drive upstairs.
I stared at the tiny garment in my grip, wondering exactly how she envisioned raising a child she inherited through murder.
A high-pitched beep from the foyer keypad echoed down the hallway, followed by a metallic click as the front door unlatched.
Marcus let the heavy camera rig drop, resting the padded mount against his hip.
“I’ll pause the roll here,” he said, tapping a button on the side of the lens housing.
The red recording indicator blinked off.
“I need to swap the primary battery pack anyway.”
I finally exhaled the moment the camera stopped. I dropped the pale green jumper back onto the pile of infant clothing. I stepped backward, wiping my damp palms against the fabric of my slacks.
Julian walked through the open-concept living room.
He wore his crisp catering uniform and carried a large silver tray covered by a polished dome.
“Apologies for the delay,” Julian said, his dress shoes tapping against the hardwood.
“Traffic was backed up on the avenue, but I kept the warmers active in the van.”
“You have impeccable timing, Julian,” I said, offering a relieved smile. “I was just about to ask for a break.”
Naomi brushed a stray blonde hair out of her face and leaned against the edge of the island. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Standing under these production lights really drains your energy.”
Julian nudged the onesies aside to find a clear spot on the marble counter. He set the platter down, the metal base hitting the stone with a heavy scrape. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said, gripping the brass handle of the lid. “I hope you’re hungry.”
He lifted the dome. A thick plume of steam billowed into the bright room, carrying the rich, savory aroma of garlic butter and roasted meat.
“I brought my signature lemon-rosemary roasted chicken, fresh from the kitchen,” Julian continued, gesturing to the spread. The golden-brown bird rested in the center of the pan, surrounded by charred sprigs of rosemary and pooling juices. “It’s best served hot.”
My mouth watered at the scent. The interruption meant I could finally stop faking interest in Naomi’s twisted maternal performance. I leaned over the counter, savoring the warm air rising from the tray.
“Julian, that smells amazing,” I said. “You always know how to spoil us on these shoot days.”
Julian beamed, tucking the silver lid under his arm. “Only the best for you, Mrs. Davenport,” he replied, giving a polite nod toward the kitchen archway. “I have the side salads out in the van. Let me go grab them for you.”
Julian’s footsteps clipped down the hall as he headed back toward the front door to retrieve the rest of the meal. On the marble counter, the heavy scent of roasted garlic and charred rosemary drifted directly across the kitchen island.
Naomi caught it.
All the color drained from her face, leaving her skin a chalky, sickly white. She clamped her left hand over her mouth. She didn’t look at the camera lens. She didn’t look at me. She shoved herself backward, her heels scraping against the floor tiles as she bolted.
Her footsteps clattered down the hallway, echoing into the adjacent corridor.
I stared at the empty space where she had just been standing. Naomi lived for the red recording indicator on Marcus’s camera rig. She never walked away from a shoot like this.
I gripped the edge of the island to steady myself. She wasn’t acting. Something was actually wrong with her.
Julian stopped halfway down the hall. He turned back, his eyes wide with confusion.
“Oh dear,” Julian said, his gaze darting between the empty hallway and the silver tray on the counter. “Did I use an ingredient she’s allergic to?”
He stepped back toward the island, reaching for the top of the dome.
“I can take it back to the van immediately,” he offered.
I looked at the catering van parked outside the front window, and then back to the men in the room. I had no idea what was going on with the woman who wanted me dead, but I had to keep up the act. I dropped my hands from the counter and stepped around the scattered baby clothes.
“No, Julian, the chicken is fine,” I said. “She’s just been fighting a stomach bug.”
“Why don’t you and Marcus carry the tray into the dining room and take five?” I asked, keeping my voice level. “Give us some privacy, please.”
I left Julian and Marcus standing by the kitchen island and walked down the main hallway.
The harsh, wet sound of gagging echoed from the open doorway of the downstairs powder room.
I stepped inside. Naomi knelt on the hexagonal floor tiles, her body hunched over the porcelain toilet bowl.
I grabbed the cold brass doorknob and pulled the door shut, sealing us in the small space.
Naomi dry-heaved again, her shoulders jerking under the fabric of her silk blouse.
I knelt beside her on the bath mat. Ignoring the tremors, I slid my fingers along the waistband of her slacks.
I located the small, square battery pack of her lavalier microphone.
I felt for the tiny toggle switch and flicked it down.
With a small plastic click, the transmitter died.
The encrypted server upstairs would just record dead air. With the door shut, Marcus would simply assume we were taking a quiet minute.
I rested my palm flat between Naomi’s shoulder blades and began to rub in slow, soothing circles. Years ago, watching her suffer like this would have terrified me. I would have been desperate to call a doctor and fix the problem.
Now, touching her just frustrated me. Comforting the very woman who planned to murder me felt like a sick joke, but I kept rubbing her back, enduring the physical contact. I just had to wait for the bout of sickness to pass so we could clean up the mess and resume the shoot.
Naomi coughed, spitting a string of bile into the water.
She leaned back on her heels, taking a ragged, shallow breath.
The polished, camera-ready aunt was gone.
Mascara smudged beneath her eyes, and her complexion looked ashen under the harsh vanity lights.
She reached up with a trembling hand, wiping a smear of saliva from her chin.
“I’ve got you,” I said. “The mic is off, the guys can’t hear anything. Just breathe, Naomi.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. She pressed her forehead against the cool porcelain. Sweat beaded along her hairline, matting her blonde hair against her pale skin. She kept her arms wrapped tight around her midsection.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Naomi muttered, her voice strained and hoarse. “The smell of that butter and meat just… it turned my stomach instantly. I feel dizzy.”
She swayed, gripping the edge of the toilet seat to keep herself upright. Her intense aversion to the roasted meat was suddenly, sickeningly familiar. It mirrored my own symptoms from months ago. I couldn’t afford to think about that yet. Right now, I just had to keep acting.
“Stay right here. Let me get you a washcloth.”