Chapter 3 - The Diary in the Floorboards
Three days passed. Seventy-two hours of living on vending machine coffee and sleeping in a hard plastic chair situated exactly halfway between the ICU where Emily lay motionless, and the NICU where Noah fought for every breath.
My mother and sister were formally charged with attempted murder, unlawful imprisonment, and felony child endangerment. They were denied bail. The local news had gotten wind of the story, framing it as a "House of Horrors in the Suburbs." I refused to watch the broadcasts.
On the fourth morning, Detective Reynolds, the lead investigator, asked me to accompany him back to my house.
"We've finished processing the primary crime scene," Reynolds explained. "But there are missing pieces. Your mother claims Emily went psychotic, locked herself in the room, and that they were too terrified to intervene. We know it's a lie, but prosecutors need a slam dunk. We need to know if Emily left anything else behind."
Walking into my own home felt like stepping into a tomb. The air was stale. Evidence tape crisscrossed the bedroom doorframe. The dining chair they had used to wedge the door shut was tagged in a plastic bag in the hallway.
I walked into our bedroom. The mattress was stripped. The crib I had built with my own two hands was pushed into a corner.
"Take your time," Reynolds said, standing by the doorway.
I walked over to the crib. I ran my hand along the wooden railing, remembering how Emily and I had spent hours painting it a soft, soothing yellow. As I touched the base, my foot caught on something uneven. It was the floor vent near the window.
I knelt. The screws on the vent cover were loose. In fact, they had been entirely removed, resting slightly askew.
"Detective," I called out.
Reynolds rushed in. I pulled the metal grate up. Reaching inside the dusty duct, my fingers brushed against a small, leather-bound notebook. It was Emily’s gratitude journal. I had bought it for her when we found out she was pregnant.
Reynolds put on a pair of latex gloves and carefully opened it. The pages, which were supposed to be filled with hopes for our baby, were covered in jagged, frantic handwriting.
Reynolds began to read aloud, his voice devoid of emotion but thick with tension.
Day 1: Ethan left this morning. Linda came in with a glass of water. It tasted bitter. I drank it because I was thirsty. I can't keep my eyes open. When I woke up, my phone was gone. I asked Ashley for it. She laughed and said I needed to disconnect. The door is locked from the outside.
Day 2: I am burning up. I think my stitches are infected. Noah is crying. I have no water. I banged on the door for an hour. Linda shouted through the wood that unfit mothers don't get privileges. What does she mean? Please, God, let Ethan come home early.
Day 3: I tried to break the window. Ashley came in and hit me with the heavy flashlight. She pushed me back on the bed and forced more of that bitter water down my throat. She said Noah deserves a strong mother, like Linda. They want to raise him. They want me to die in here so they can tell Ethan I went crazy and starved my own baby. I am so weak.
Day 4: Noah's cry is fading. I am biting my own lip to stay awake. I sewed a note into my gown. If I don't make it, I need Ethan to know. I love you, Ethan. I'm sorry I couldn't protect him.
I collapsed against the wall, dry-heaving. The absolute evil of it was incomprehensible. They didn't just want to hurt Emily—they wanted to erase her. They wanted to steal my son and mold him into their twisted image, using my grief as a weapon to control me forever.
May you like
"We have them," Reynolds said quietly, holding the journal like it was made of gold. "Ethan, they will never see the light of day again."
---
