Chapter 1 - The Woman Who Ran Down the HallI had spent the entire drive home wondering why Emily had stopped answering my messages.
Three calls.
Four texts.
Nothing.
Normally, she sent me a picture of our son before noon, usually some ridiculous close-up of his tiny face. That day there had been nothing.
When I pulled into the driveway of our suburban Chicago home, I told myself not to panic.
Then I heard the crying.
Not the normal newborn fussing.
This was desperate.
I opened the front door so hard it slammed against the wall.
My briefcase hit the floor.
“Emily?”
My mother’s voice came from the kitchen.
“Move faster! Do I have to do everything around here?”
I ran.
And there she was.
Emily was on her knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor with one hand while holding our one-month-old son against her chest with the other.
Her hair was a mess.
Her cheeks were pale.
Her lips looked almost colorless.
And my mother, Linda, stood behind her.
One hand was in Emily’s hair.
The other pointed toward the dirty floor.
“I told you to clean that corner!”
“Mom!”
Linda froze.
Emily turned.
Our son screamed.
I crossed the room in three steps.
“Get your hands off my wife.”
Linda slowly released Emily’s hair.
She smiled.
Not apologetically.
Almost amused.
“Daniel. You're home early.”
I grabbed the cleaning cloth from Emily and threw it into the sink.
“What happened?”
Linda shrugged.
“She’s been lazy all morning.”
Emily lowered her eyes.
I noticed something.
A red mark around her wrist.
Then another near her neck.
My stomach tightened.
“Emily.”
She didn't answer.
“Look at me.”
Her eyes met mine.
And for half a second, I saw something I had never seen in them before.
Fear.
Not sadness.
Not exhaustion.
Fear.
I reached for our son.
Emily backed away.
“Please don't take him.”
My heart nearly stopped.
“Emily, it's me.”
She glanced at Linda.
That tiny movement told me everything.
I held out my arms again.
Eventually, she placed the baby in them.
He buried his tiny face against my chest, still crying.
I looked back at my wife.
“Who hurt you?”
“She fell,” Linda said.
I turned.
“I didn't ask you.”
Linda's smile vanished.
“She hasn’t slept. She doesn't know what she's saying.”
Emily swallowed.
“She won't let me sleep.”
Linda snapped her head toward her.
“What did you say?”
Emily flinched.
I stepped between them.
“Enough.”
Linda scoffed.
“You don't understand what it's like to live with someone who can't manage a baby or a house.”
“She gave birth four weeks ago.”
“She should be back on her feet.”
“She is standing right in front of you.”
Linda crossed her arms.
“Then maybe she should act like a mother.”
Emily's knees suddenly buckled.
I caught her before she hit the tile.
The movement knocked something from her robe pocket.
A tiny brown bottle rolled across the floor.
I picked it up.
The label had been completely torn away.
Linda lunged.
“Give me that.”
I stepped back.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Why were you carrying it?”
“I said it's nothing.”
Emily looked at the bottle.
Her voice came out almost soundlessly.
“Daniel…”
I turned toward her.
“What?”
She looked at the hallway.
“There’s a camera in our bedroom.”
The room went silent.
Even the baby stopped crying.
I slowly turned toward the hallway.
Linda moved first.
She ran.
I caught her by the wrist.
“Why are you running?”
She yanked against my grip.
“Let go of me.”
“Why?”
“I need to check something.”
“What?”
Her face changed.
For the first time since I'd known my mother, she looked genuinely frightened.
Then Emily whispered behind me.
“She knows exactly who put it there.”
I looked at Linda.
My mother stared back.
And suddenly I realized something terrifying.
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She wasn't surprised there was a camera.
She was afraid that I had found out.
