BLIND SIGHT

I didn't take the elevator. I bolted for the stairs, my shoes slapping frantically against the concrete steps as I descended four flights.

It’s the dementia, I chanted in my head, a desperate, frantic mantra. She’s sick. She’s confused. She’s projecting her trauma onto David.

But the photograph burned in my pocket. The eyes. The jawline. The watch.

I burst through the hospital lobby doors into the cool night air and ran to my car. My hands were shaking so violently I dropped my keys twice before I finally unlocked the door and threw myself into the driver’s seat.

I called David’s phone as I sped out of the parking lot.

It rang four times and went to voicemail.

"David, pick up," I pleaded into the phone. "Call me back."

I dialed Aunt Clara again. This time, she answered on the second ring, her voice tight and defensive.

"I have nothing else to say," Clara said quickly.

"You listen to me," I snapped, merging onto the highway with reckless speed. "Mom just told me Leo didn't die. She said Thomas gave him away. She said he used to stand on our porch."

Clara let out a choked sob. "She promised she would never speak of it."

"Is it true?" I screamed.

"Yes!" Clara cried. "Thomas faked the death to punish her. He adopted the boy out to a family out of state. But Thomas kept tabs on him. When Thomas got sick, he brought the boy back just to torture your mother. Just to let her see what she couldn't have."

"Where did the adoptive family live?" I asked, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"Ohio," Clara whispered.

My tires swerved slightly, the car jerking into the next lane before I corrected it.

David’s family was from Ohio.

"Clara," I said, my voice dropping to a horrifying whisper. "What was Thomas Vance's address? Where did he live when he died?"

"I don't know the exact number," Clara said. "But it was that old blue Victorian on Elm Street. The one that sat empty for years until the estate sale."

I slammed on the brakes as a red light materialized out of the dark, my tires screeching.

The estate sale.

David had bought the watch at an estate sale on Elm Street when we first moved back to my hometown five years ago. He told me he wandered in while I was unpacking boxes. He told me he just liked the vintage look of it.

"I have to go," I said, hanging up on Clara.

My brain felt like it was fracturing into a million pieces. The man I had been married to for six years, the father of my child. Was it possible? Could David be Leo?

If he was, did he know?

If he knew, did he marry me on purpose? Was our entire relationship a calculated, sick revenge orchestrated by a father he never knew he had?

No. I couldn't accept it. David was kind. He was loving. When my son was born, David wept in the delivery room. He wasn't a monster.

But my mother had fed our son chili powder today. She had attacked David.

Why? Because she recognized the watch.

I pulled onto our street. The house was completely dark except for a single light on the second floor. The nursery.

I parked the car halfway in the driveway, didn't bother locking it, and sprinted to the front door. I fumbled with my keys, my breath coming in jagged gasps, and pushed the door open.

The house was dead silent.

"David!" I yelled, dropping my purse on the floor.

No answer.

The broken bowl and the spilled chili powder were still on the kitchen floor, a grim reminder of the violence that had erupted just hours ago.

I ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I reached the landing and pushed open the door to the nursery.

The crib was empty.

"David!" I screamed, panic clawing at my throat.

I spun around and ran into our master bedroom. Empty. The bathroom. Empty.

I ran back downstairs, checking the living room, the den, the basement door. Nothing. The house was completely deserted.

I pulled out my phone to call the police. I didn't care if I sounded crazy. My husband and my son were missing.

Before I could dial 911, my phone vibrated in my hand.

It was a text from an unknown number.

Check the root cellar.

I stared at the screen, the blood draining from my face.

We didn't have a root cellar in this house. But there was an old storm shelter out back, built into the side of the hill behind our property. We never used it. The heavy wooden doors had been padlocked since we moved in.

I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a heavy metal flashlight from the drawer, and sprinted out the back door into the dark yard.

The grass was wet with evening dew. The beam of my flashlight bounced frantically across the lawn until it hit the rusted metal padlock of the storm shelter.

The lock was broken. It lay in the grass, cracked open.

The heavy wooden doors were slightly ajar.

"David?" I called out, my voice trembling.

From deep down in the dark earth, I heard the faint, muffled sound of a baby crying.

It was my son.

I pulled the heavy doors open, the old hinges screaming in the quiet night, and pointed my flashlight down the concrete steps.

"I'm coming!" I yelled, gripping the flashlight like a weapon, and descended into the dark.

The air grew instantly cold and smelled of damp earth and rot. At the bottom of the stairs, the small space was mostly empty, save for a few rotting wooden shelves.

In the corner, sitting on a dusty tarp, was David.

He was holding our son tightly against his chest, rocking him back and forth. His white bandage was soaked through with fresh blood.

He looked up at me, his eyes wide and wild in the beam of the flashlight.

"David," I gasped, rushing forward. "What are you doing down here? What happened?"

He didn't reach for me. He actually shrank back against the concrete wall, clutching the baby closer.

"She's here," David whispered, his voice trembling with sheer terror. "She came back."

I stopped in my tracks.

"Who?" I asked.

Before David could answer, the heavy wooden doors at the top of the stairs slammed shut, plunging us into total darkness.