Part 14
Ethan didn't hesitate. He reached into the nightstand drawer and pulled out the heavy tactical flashlight he kept for emergencies. "Stay here. Lock the door behind me, Emily. Do not open it unless you hear my voice."
"Ethan, no, don't go out there," I pleaded, grabbing his arm.
"I have to protect our daughter," he said fiercely, his eyes blazing with a cold fury I had never seen in him before. "Lock the door."
He slipped out into the darkened hallway, and I immediately turned the deadbolt, pressing my back against the wood. I hurried over to Chloe’s room, which was connected to ours through a shared bathroom. She was fast asleep, her little thumb tucked into her mouth, completely untroubled by the nightmare unfolding around her. I stood over her crib, my heart pounding so hard I was convinced it would wake her up.
The music suddenly stopped.
A heavy silence descended on the house. I strained my ears, listening for sounds of a struggle, a shattered glass, a gunshot—anything. Minutes felt like agonizing hours. My hands gripped the wooden railing of Chloe's bed so tightly my knuckles turned white.
Then, three soft knocks on our bedroom door.
"Emily, it’s me. It’s safe," Ethan’s voice called out, sounding exhausted.
I rushed across the room, unlocked the door, and pulled him inside. He was pale, his flashlight lowered.
"Was anyone there?" I asked, looking past him into the empty hallway.
"No," Ethan said, rubbing a hand over his face. "The doors are all locked from the inside. The windows are secure. There’s no sign of forced entry. But..." He swallowed hard. "The music box was on the floor in the middle of the living room. It was wound up, spinning on its side."
"How is that possible?" I whispered, terror gripping my throat. "Are we losing our minds?"
"I don't think we're losing our minds," Ethan said grimly. "I think whoever put that package on our porch did something to it before they left it. Marcus called me back while I was downstairs. He got a preliminary look at the neighbor’s driveway camera from this morning."
I held my breath, waiting.
"It wasn't a stranger, Emily," Ethan said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The camera captured a woman in a heavy winter coat, walking with a severe limp, using a cane. She walked right up our steps, left the box, and walked away. It was Madison. She’s not in Colorado. She’s here, in our town."
The realization hit me like a physical blow. The prison, the infirmary, the paralysis—it had all been a lie, or perhaps she had recovered enough to manipulate her way out. The letter from my mother hadn't been a plea for mercy. It had been a scout report. They had used my mother's desperation to test the waters, to see if I would respond, and when I didn't, Madison came herself.
May you like
"And the music box?" I asked, looking toward the living room.
"Marcus thinks it was rigged with a cheap, remote-controlled mechanical timer or a Bluetooth trigger," Ethan explained, anger flashing in his eyes. "She didn't have to be in the house to turn it on. She just had to be close enough to press a button from the street. She’s playing with us, Emily. She wants us terrified."
