4. The Blind Spot
Chapter four
The Blind Spot
The doorbell rang in the quiet house, cutting through the low hum of the refrigerator.
I walked down the hallway, the smell of fresh coffee wafting from the kitchen behind me.
My boots shuffled across the hardwood floors.
I stopped in front of the entryway, staring at the solid front door.
I reached out and gripped the brass doorknob.
The metal felt like ice against my skin.
I squeezed the fixture a fraction too tight. The rigid brass dug into my palm, the dull ache clearing my head. Taking a shallow breath, I forced myself to let go. I twisted the lock and pulled the door open. A bitter autumn draft swept into the heated foyer, biting at my cheeks.
Sebastian stood on the porch. The sight of him caught me off guard. Gone were the pristine bespoke suits and silk ties. Instead, he wore a plain black crew-neck shirt, a worn leather jacket, and dark denim.
He looked exactly like a standard, overworked documentary producer.
The physical disguise was flawless, yet his quiet, underlying authority remained intact.
Seeing my attorney standing on my front porch eased the tension in my shoulders.
Warren had never met him; I deliberately kept Sebastian confined to the oversight of my private trust, a boring legal boundary my husband never cared to cross as long as the firm’s joint accounts remained full.
Marcus stood a step behind him on the concrete stoop. The videographer balanced two massive black Pelican cases on a collapsible metal hand truck. I pulled the door wider, stepping out of the direct path of the wind to let them inside.
“Watch the threshold with those front wheels,” I told Marcus, keeping my voice light and conversational. “The wood splinters if they catch the lip too hard.”
“Got it, Mrs. Davenport,” Marcus replied. “I’ll take it slow.”
He tipped the hand truck backward, distributing the weight of the cameras, and hoisted the awkward load over the threshold.
The hard plastic wheels hit the floorboards with a hollow clatter.
I released the doorknob and pushed the heavy door shut against the morning chill.
The deadbolt engaged with a metallic click.
I pressed my palm flat over my swollen stomach. I let my shoulders droop, playing the part of the overwhelmed, exhausted wife. My cover required me to be a passive, grateful observer in my own home. I needed to look like a woman who desperately wanted a production crew to document her legacy.
Footsteps echoed from the kitchen hallway. Warren and Naomi hurried into the foyer, tripping over themselves to reach the front door. They looked impeccable.
Naomi wore a silk blouse and pristine tailored slacks. Her blonde hair was styled into a flawless, swooping blowout that probably took an hour to achieve. Warren matched her polished look, dressed in a custom blazer over a crisp, fitted shirt.
He adjusted his stiff cuffs as he approached the stack of equipment. Seeing him preen for the strangers in our house turned my stomach. He was a failed actor desperate for an audience, and he was already getting into character.
“You both look ready for a magazine cover,” I noted. I forced a warm, appreciative smile onto my face, examining their polished appearances. “I barely had time to throw this on.”
I tugged at the edge of my loose maternity cardigan, making sure they noticed my frumpy attire.
“We just wanted to make a good first impression for the brand, Junie,” Naomi said. She reached out and patted my shoulder, her fingernails snagging the wool of my sweater. She beamed at the two men standing in the entryway. “We represent you, after all.”
Warren stepped to my side, slipping an arm around my waist. The spicy scent of his cologne washed over me. I stared straight ahead, ignoring the instinct to shove him away. He looked at the stacked cases resting on the hardwood, squaring his shoulders to act the part of the gracious host.
“Welcome to our home, gentlemen,” Warren announced. His voice projected into the high ceilings, a hollow echo of his old stage training. “Let me give you a hand with those cases. They look too heavy to carry up the stairs.”
Sebastian barely looked at him. He slipped a clipboard from his bag, adopting the demeanor of a bored, indifferent producer. He flipped a page, scanning the schedule before looking up at my husband.
“Appreciate it, Mr. Davenport,” Sebastian said, his tone flat. “But Marcus has a strict system for the gear. We’ll set up base camp in the upstairs guest room if that still works for you?”
Naomi stepped forward, her heels clicking against the wood. She offered Sebastian a dazzling, camera-ready smile, dialing her charm up to maximum for the new audience.
“Of course, I cleared the closet out for you last night,” Naomi chimed in, desperate to please the men who would capture her every lie on film.
We left the foyer and walked into the open-concept living room. The dry heat from the floor vents chased away the lingering autumn chill. Marcus hauled one of the heavy black cases to the center of the floor and set it down.
“Let’s test the primary setup in here,” Marcus said, gesturing toward the bay windows. “The natural light looks solid, but we need to balance the shadows.”
He popped the latches on his equipment case. The metal snapped open with a sharp clack.
I stopped at the edge of the seating area. Resting my hand against the back of the beige sofa, I let the rough fabric scratch against my palm. Warren and Naomi hovered close to Marcus. They watched his every move with wide, eager eyes.
“Should we move the coffee table?” Naomi asked. She pointed at the glass surface. “I don’t want it reflecting the camera lens.”
“Leave the table,” Marcus said. “I’ll shoot around it.”
Marcus pulled a collapsible metal tripod from the case. He extended the legs, planting them firmly on the thick living room rug. He mounted a rectangular LED panel to the top bracket.
“Should we stand near the windows?” Naomi asked. She tilted her chin up, finding the morning sun. “I don’t want any weird shadows under my eyes for the introductory shots.”
“I’ll wash out the shadows,” Marcus replied.
He twisted the tightening knobs on the light stand, locking the rig into place. He hit the power switch. A blinding white glare flooded the room, overpowering the natural sun. A low, steady hum emitted from the panel’s internal cooling fan.
The intense, artificial light stripped all the welcoming warmth from the living room, leaving it as manufactured and hollow as my marriage. I stared at the harsh illumination.
Marcus pivoted the panel toward the sofa area. His boots dragged against the rug as he circled the setup, checking the framing. Warren and Naomi shifted in tandem. They tracked the bright light like moths, adjusting their posture to catch the most flattering angle.
The illusion Marcus projected was seamless. He treated them like standard on-screen talent, taking total control of the room with strict, professional instructions.
“These high ceilings swallow the sound in here,” Marcus announced. He stepped back from the light stand and pointed at the vaulted space above us. “I’m going to need you both to project your voices so the microphones can pick you up.”
Warren puffed out his chest. He raised his hands, gesturing toward the open room. He thrived on the attention. The man had spent years waiting for a stage, and now that he finally had an audience, he would do whatever Marcus commanded.
“Not a problem at all,” Warren said, offering the videographer a charming, practiced smile. “I actually have a background in theater. If you need me to project over the ambient noise, just give me a hand signal.”
“Sure thing,” Marcus replied. He walked back to his equipment case. “Just try to act natural and pretend the lens isn’t even in the room.”
I watched my husband and best friend exchange a thrilled, conspiratorial look. They were so focused on finding the ideal lighting that they were completely blind to the danger.
While Warren and Naomi preened in the white glare of the LED panel, Sebastian stepped to the edge of the thick living room rug.
The cooling fan from the lighting rig droned softly in the background.
Sebastian ignored their posing. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a plain manila folder.
He moved with a sluggish, dismissive posture, treating the legal clearance like a tedious administrative chore.
He dropped the paperwork onto the center of the glass coffee table.
The paper hit the glass with a flat slap.
“Let’s get the boring stuff out of the way before Marcus frames the master shot,” Sebastian said, his voice carrying a dry, unbothered tone.
I stood just outside the arc of the bright lights, forcing a polite, curious expression onto my face. Beneath the mask, a fine tremor rippled through my fingers. I tangled my hands into the edge of my wool cardigan, using the thick fabric to hide the shaking from the room.
“Just standard liability stuff here,” Sebastian continued.
He stepped around the coffee table and pointed to the blocks of dense text on the top page.
“It gives us continuous audio clearance for the shoot so we don’t have to keep stopping to ask for consent every time you step into frame.
” He pulled a silver ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket and held it out.
Warren took the pen without hesitation. He leaned over the coffee table, his eyes skimming over the bold heading while ignoring every legal clause below it. He just wanted the cameras rolling.
“Makes perfect sense,” my husband said, offering Sebastian an easy, confident grin. “I’ve signed dozens of these on sets before. Here you go.”