Chapter 2 - The Locked Door

A wave of cold ran straight down my spine.

I stood in the entryway of my own home, the plastic bags from the bakery cutting into my palms, and listened to the deafening silence beneath the blaring television.

The house smelled wrong. It wasn’t just the stale odor of unwashed dishes and spilled coffee; there was a sharp, chemical scent underneath it, like rubbing alcohol and something deeply rotten.

I dropped the bags. They hit the hardwood floor with a soft thud.

Neither my mother nor my sister moved from the couch. Courtney’s phone was resting on her chest, still playing a makeup tutorial. My mother was snoring softly, wrapped in the expensive cashmere throw blanket I had bought Hannah for our anniversary.

I walked past them, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“Hannah?” I called out, keeping my voice low.

No answer.

I hurried down the hallway toward the master bedroom. The air grew colder with every step. I realized the thermostat in the hallway had been cranked all the way down. It was practically freezing.

When I reached our bedroom door, I grabbed the handle and twisted.

It didn’t budge.

I frowned, jiggling the knob harder. It was locked. But not from the inside.

My breath caught in my throat. The lock on our bedroom door was a simple push-button on the inside, but someone had wedged a heavy wooden chair under the exterior handle, jamming it shut from the hallway.

“Hannah!” I shouted, my panic finally breaking through.

I kicked the chair away. It skittered across the floor, scraping the wood. I threw the door open.

The room was plunged into complete darkness. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn tight.

I slammed my hand against the wall, flicking on the overhead light.

What I saw in that room will haunt my nightmares until the day I die.

Hannah was lying on the floor beside the bed, curled into a tight, shivering ball. She was wearing the same hospital gown she had worn the day she was discharged. It was stained with sweat and dried blood.

Beside her, in his bassinet, little Owen was making a weak, raspy sound—a cry so exhausted he didn't even have the breath to make it loud.

“Hannah!” I dropped to my knees, sliding across the carpet.

Her skin was the color of ash. Her lips were cracked and bleeding. When I touched her face, she was burning with a terrifying fever, yet her body was trembling violently from the freezing air in the room.

“Ethan…” she whispered. Her voice was barely a ghost of a sound. Her eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.

“I’m here. I’m here, baby, I’ve got you,” I choked out, tears instantly flooding my vision.

I looked around the room. There was no water. No food. Her pain medication from the hospital was missing from the nightstand. Even her phone was gone.

“She… she took him…” Hannah breathed, her trembling fingers reaching out to grip my shirt. “Your mother… she said I was unfit…”

Suddenly, the bedroom door swung open wider.

My mother stood in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Courtney was right behind her, yawning.

“Ethan? What are you doing home so early?” my mother asked. Her voice was perfectly calm. Casual. Like I had just walked in on her baking cookies.

I turned around, the rage inside me igniting into a blazing inferno.

“What did you do to her?!” I roared, the sound tearing my throat.

My mother crossed her arms, clicking her tongue in disapproval. “Keep your voice down, you’ll upset the baby. I told you, Ethan, she’s not handling motherhood well. She locked herself in here. She’s hysterical. I’ve been taking care of Owen all by myself.”

“She was locked from the OUTSIDE!” I screamed.

Courtney rolled her eyes. “She probably did it to get attention. You know how manipulative she is.”

I didn't waste another breath on them. I scooped Hannah’s fragile, burning body into my arms. She weighed practically nothing.

“Don't touch my son,” I snarled at my mother as I carried Hannah past them. “If either of you comes near him, I swear to God I will kill you.”