Chapter 2

When I close the door, I dragged a breath into my lungs.

I rested a hand on my flat stomach.

They were gone. Finally, peace to protect what was mine.

The next day, a piercing scream shattered the quiet.

Elodie.

I sprinted down the hall and shoved her bedroom door open. She stood frozen by her dresser, pointing a trembling finger at the plastic pet cage.

Her hamster wasn't moving. It was pinned to the wood shavings by a sharp metal hairpin driven straight through its stomach.

I grabbed the water bottle hanging off the wire mesh. The clear water had been replaced. It was filled to the brim with thick, bright blue antifreeze.

Taped to the side of the plastic cage was a crayon drawing. It depicted a woman with a massively swollen abdomen colored in violently with red wax. The woman had no eyes.

Charles rushed into the room. He grabbed Elodie instantly, pulling her face into his shoulder. "Don't look, sweetie."

I ripped the drawing off the cage and shoved it against his chest. "Look what they did right before you drove them away. This is a death threat, Charles."

He snatched the paper and crushed it into his jeans pocket before ushering Elodie out to the living room.

When he returned, he shut the bedroom door and backed me against the dresser.

"You're spiraling, Vivienne," he whispered. "The pregnancy hormones are making you manic. Tell me the truth. Did you do this?"

I stared at him. "What?"

"Did you kill the animal and draw that picture to guarantee I wouldn't bring them back?"

My blood ran completely cold.

How could he say that?

Before I could tear into him, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

Constance.

"They won't eat," my mom complained. "It's been a full day. They just sit facing the corners of the guest room."

"It's transition trauma, Mom," I replied flatly, staring right into Charles's eyes. "Let them starve out their tantrum."

I ended the call.

A day later, the phone rang again. Constance was sobbing.

"Come get them! They’re screaming! They’re smashing their foreheads against the drywall until they bleed! I can't take this anymore!"

"Just lock their bedroom door," I said, my nails digging into my palms. "I'll call the welfare agency on Monday and have them transferred."

But they didn't make it to Monday.

Friday afternoon, Charles parked the SUV in our driveway. Elodie hopped out with her tiny backpack.

She stopped dead on the lawn. "Silas? Lyra?"

Sitting on our porch were two ragged figures. Their shoes were torn. Their knees bled through ripped denim. They had hitchhiked and walked over fifteen miles from the suburbs.

The very second Charles stepped onto the path, Lyra burst into loud, pathetic tears. Silas lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Charles's waist and burying his filthy face in his shirt.

Elodie started crying too. "Daddy, don't let them go! They're hurt!"

Charles glared at me over Silas’s shoulder.

"If you try to call the agency now, Child Protective Services will see these injuries," Charles said, his volume low. "They'll investigate us for abuse, Vivienne. Do you want to lose custody of Elodie?"

He backed me right into a legal and moral corner.

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. I gave a single, tight nod.

They trailed inside, leaving dusty footprints on the hardwood.

Lyra placed a rusted tin music box on the hallway console table. The metal crank spun slowly. Instead of a lullaby, a scratched, distorted recording hissed out through the tiny speaker.

“Hello, Vivienne.”

Lyra snatched the box back. Her face was entirely blank.

Elodie clapped her hands. "Everybody is home!"

I practically ran to the kitchen and dialed Constance. "Pack a bag. Be at my house tomorrow morning. No arguments."

I hung up, walked straight into the garage, and grabbed a heavy iron slide bolt and a brass padlock. I dropped them onto the kitchen island with a loud clatter.

Charles stared at the hardware.

"Install this on the outside of their bedroom door," I demanded. "Now."

"You're treating them like prisoners," he scoffed.

"Do it, Charles, or I'm calling the police to dust that antifreeze bottle for fingerprints."

His jaw tightened, but he grabbed the drill.

By midnight, the house was silent. I forced myself out of bed to use the bathroom.

The hallway was pitch black.

From the floorboards near my feet, a mechanical scratching noise echoed.

The tinny crank of the music box turned. Lyra’s recorded, digitized voice whispered upward through the dark.

“Die, Vivienne.”

“Die, Vivienne.”

“Die, Vivienne.”

I raised my heel and stomped down hard. The plastic casing shattered. The mechanism crunched. The voice died.

I marched straight to the kids' room.

The iron padlock secured the slide bolt perfectly in place. Nothing was tampered with.

I exhaled a shaky breath and turned into the bathroom.

I flipped the sink light on. I turned the faucet and splashed freezing water onto my face.

I reached for a hand towel and looked up into the mirror.

My breath completely vanished.

In the mirror's reflection, the shower curtain behind me was parted just a fraction of an inch.

In that narrow gap of darkness, two pairs of unblinking eyes caught the light.

They were staring directly at my stomach.