Home should never feel like a trap. But tonight, the house looks like a shadow of itself.
It’s a dark and silent shape against the plum backdrop of night. The windows are off, with no sign of life inside, yet I know in my heart…they’re in there.
Declan and my babies are home, and they’re suffering in silence.
It’s like the house has become their prison and the psychotic bitch we’ve hired for a nanny is their warden.
There’s no way Declan would’ve let her answer the phone otherwise, no way he would’ve let her hold Emmett after I was trying to reach him.
She’s done something to him. If I don’t do what she says, she’ll hurt Declan and Willow and Emmett too…
I didn’t even have to think about it. I ripped out my IV and changed into the only pair of clothes I had in the hospital room. Then I waited until the nurses were in the middle of their shift change and slipped down the corridor before any of them ever noticed.
My legs quaked like Jello, feeling like they would give out at any second, but I pushed on until I was outside and able to call a taxi.
I couldn’t risk calling the police or involving anyone else.
Chelsea was unstable enough to impersonate her sister (and maybe hurt her and her husband). She was unstable enough to do things like tamper with my insulin and spend weeks sabotaging my life.
If she thought the walls were closing in, there’s a chance she would do something crazy just to get back at me. She reallywouldhurt Willow or Emmett if she thought I called the cops.
I stop at the edge of the drive and stare up at the house, my skin prickling with dread. This might be the last time I ever walk through the front door. The last time I’m alive and breathing.
There’s no telling what trap will be waiting for me on the inside.
But I’ll walk through fire if it means getting to Declan and the kids.
When I open the front door, the hinges groan like a warning. The air is frigid and cold, like the boiler’s gone out again. The front hall is dark and empty. No sound of laughter or hint of footsteps. Just loud silence only joined by the click of the door shutting behind me.
My footsteps barely make a sound as I start down the hallway. I know this space so well. Every smudge on the wall, every creak in the floorboards, every photo frame that hangs a little crooked because I’ve promised myself a hundred times I’ll get around to fixing it. And yet, in this moment, the familiarity feels off. This is my home, but it doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It feels like I’ve stepped into some twisted nightmare.
My hand rises to flick the hallway light on, fingers brushing the cool plastic of the switch, but I hesitate. Something in me—something deeper than fear, something more strategic—says notto. As if turning on the light would shatter this fragile veil of silence and alert whatever waits in the dark to my presence.
I let my hand fall back to my side and shift my gaze to the staircase, thinking maybe I’ll find them huddled in our bedroom. They might’ve barricaded themselves inside until help comes. I take a step toward the stairs, heart thudding heavy in my chest, and then I hear it.
The soft, high-pitched coo of a baby.
Emmett.
My body freezes, maternal instincts firing off at once. Heart stuttering inside my chest, I pick up on more of his sounds: another quiet little coo, then a sleepy sigh.
But it’s not coming from upstairs; it’s coming from the left where the living room is.
I backtrack, feet carrying me toward the sound before my mind can catch up. I rush into the dark room with eyes scanning the space for any signs of my baby.
“Emmett…?”
Please, God, let him be safe. Let them all be safe.
But instead of finding my baby boy curled up in his playpen like I’d hoped, I find his baby monitor perched on the coffee table, the green light flashing, telling me it’s on. That I’mlisteningto Emmett somewhere else inside the house.
It’s a trap I’ve walked straight into.
I barely register the shift in the air before it happens. Chelsea lunges at me out of nowhere, raising the sharp object in her hand over her head.
Instinct takes over as I scream and throw myself sideways. My limbs are still weak and jelly-like, worsened now by the panic, but I’m able to narrowly dodge what’s a kitchen knife in her hand.
I crash into the lamp behind the armchair, knocking it over with a loud crack, and then my foot catches on the edge ofa potted plant. The ceramic explodes across the floor as soil scatters in a spray of earth.
