The blood had dried deep into the carpet, forming a dark, ugly stain. It stretched from beside the rocking chair toward the bassinet, as if someone had tried to drag themselves across the floor.
Ryan’s throat tightened.
He remembered my face when he walked out.
Pale.
Sweating.
Terrified.
He remembered my hand shaking against the doorframe.
He remembered me saying that this was not normal.
And he remembered his own voice, flat and annoyed.
He had told me to stop being dramatic because it was his birthday weekend.
His knees nearly buckled.
“Emma,” he whispered.
Then louder.
“Emma!”
He ran from one room to the next.
The bedroom looked untouched except for the half-folded laundry I had left on the chair. The kitchen still had the mug of tea I had made and never finished. The bottle warmer remained on the counter. Ethan’s tiny blue blanket was lying across the sofa.
But there was no wife.
No baby.
No sign of anyone alive.
Ryan grabbed his phone and called me.
Somewhere inside the house, my ringtone began to sound.
Soft.
Muffled.
Coming from the nursery.
He followed the noise with trembling hands.
My phone was trapped beneath the edge of the changing table, its screen cracked, its battery almost dead.
Thirty-seven missed calls.
None of them from him.
The latest one came from an unknown number.
Ryan stared at the screen as if it had accused him out loud.
Then he noticed the notifications still showing.
His own video from Aspen.
The one where he had laughed into the camera.
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