Chapter 2 - THE NIGHT OF HIS BIRTHDAY
“Ryan.”
Emily moved faster than she should have, one hand pressing Liam carefully back into the crib, the other catching the nursery doorframe to keep herself upright.
Blood was already staining her nightgown.
“Ryan!”
He was halfway down the upstairs hall, dragging a suitcase.
He turned with clear irritation first, concern only second.
Emily walked toward him and then almost staggered.
She grabbed his arm.
“Ryan, please! Something’s wrong!”
For one second his eyes dropped to the blood.
Emily saw him understand.
She also saw him decide.
His mouth hardened.
He tore his arm away.
“STOP ruining my birthday!”
The force of the movement unbalanced her.
Emily stared at him.
Not because the sentence was cruel.
Because he said it like he meant it.
Like the worst part of the moment was not the blood.
Not her fear.
Not their newborn son crying in the next room.
The worst part was inconvenience.
“Ryan,” she whispered.
He picked up the suitcase again.
“Call Marta. Call the doctor. Call whoever you need.”
He kept walking.
Emily took one step after him.
The front door slammed downstairs.
Silence rushed into the house so suddenly it roared.
Then Liam began screaming.
Emily turned back toward the nursery.
She made it three steps.
Then the floor tilted.
Pain shot through her lower body in one hot, tearing wave.
She hit the wall, slid downward, and reached blindly for the nursery doorway.
The cream carpet caught her knees.
Blood spread beneath her almost immediately.
Liam screamed and screamed.
Emily dragged herself forward with both hands.
Each movement felt wrong.
Slow.
Wet.
Far too heavy.
“Please…” she whispered.
The crib seemed impossibly far.
Liam was on his back, fists clenched, crying red-faced into the empty room.
Emily tried to stand.
Her body refused.
She reached one hand upward toward the crib rail.
Missed.
Tried again.
Her fingers caught the edge.
For one second she thought she had done enough.
Then black moved at the edges of her vision.
Her phone lit up on the floor beside her.
Not a call.
A photo notification.
Ryan at a luxury mountain resort, already in front of a stone fireplace, raising a whiskey glass while his friends laughed around him.
Caption:
FINALLY—NO WIFE, NO DRAMA.
Emily stared at the screen.
Then her hand slipped.
Her cheek hit the carpet.
The crib bars rose above her like something far away.
Liam kept crying.
“Please…” she whispered again.
No answer came.
Her eyes closed.
***
Three days later, Ryan Carter came home smiling.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet, maybe, but he did not notice at first. He came through the front door carrying expensive shopping bags and one overnight case. The mountain resort had gone later and harder than planned. Too much whiskey. Too much celebration. Too many texts he ignored from house staff because he assumed they were about flowers, deliveries, or Emily being upset.
He shut the door behind him.
“Emily! I’m back!”
No answer.
He walked into the foyer.
Something sour and metallic hit him then.
The smile slipped.
One of the shopping bags fell against his leg as he moved deeper into the house.
“Emily?”
Still nothing.
Then he saw the carpet at the bottom of the stairs.
Not the full stain.
Just the first rust-dark drag mark where something had soaked through and spread.
Ryan stopped breathing.
He dropped the bags.
Ran up the stairs two at a time.
The nursery door stood open.
Ryan burst inside.
The room was empty.
The crib was empty.
The carpet beneath it held an enormous dried blood stain.
He stared.
His whole mind emptied and then filled too fast.
“EMILY?!”
The word came out shredded.
He spun toward the hall.
No baby.
No wife.
No movement.
Only the white noise hiss of the room’s baby monitor base.
Then, suddenly, a baby cried through the speaker.
Ryan froze.
The sound came from the monitor sitting on the dresser.
He turned toward it slowly.
The cry came again.
Old.
Tinny.
Recorded.
Ryan grabbed the monitor unit in both hands.
The screen flickered.
Static.
Then picture.
Nursery camera footage.
Timestamp from three nights earlier.
On the recording, Emily lay unconscious in a pool of blood beneath the crib.
Baby Liam screamed and cried above her.
Ryan’s face went white.
The nursery door on the recording began to open.
A shadowy figure entered.
Only from behind at first.
Tall.
Imposing.
Black coat.
Calm, deliberate movements.
The man stepped into clearer view.
Ryan’s lips parted.
No.
Impossible.
The shopping bag he had carried into the nursery slipped from his numb fingers.
On the tiny screen, the man bent down toward the crib.
Ryan whispered, horrified:
May you like
“You…?”
Then the feed cut to black.
