Chapter 1 - ANSWER ME
Diane Carter pounded on the bedroom door.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
“DON’T YOU DARE PEE IN THAT ROOM!”
She hit it again.
“USE YOUR BATHROOM!”
Silence.
Michael Carter rushed down the hallway.
He grabbed the handle and yanked.
Locked.
“OPEN IT!”
Diane knocked his hand away.
“No!”
Michael turned on her.
“It’s been seven days!”
Diane stepped between him and the lock.
“She stays in there.”
Michael reached past her.
Diane blocked him.
“She needs to learn how to behave.”
Michael slammed his fist against the door.
“EMILY!”
Nothing.
Again.
“ANSWER ME!”
Diane grabbed his arm.
“She’s doing this for attention.”
Michael stared at the door.
The anger in his face changed.
“Why isn’t she answering?”
Diane folded her arms.
“Because she wants us scared.”
Michael pressed his ear against the wood.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No crying.
No television.
No water.
He whispered:
“Emily?”
Inside the room, eight-year-old Emily Carter lay motionless beside the bed.
Her private bathroom door stood open.
Untouched food sat on a tray.
The window was closed.
The air was stale.
Outside, her parents were still arguing.
Neither opened the door.
Not yet.
The smart-lock system also had a camera-free hallway sensor.
No video.
Only motion.
It showed Diane walking to the door:
Monday evening,
Tuesday morning,
Tuesday evening,
Wednesday morning,
Thursday afternoon.
After that:
nothing until Sunday.
Diane said she left trays by the door.
The motion log supported some visits.
But not Friday or Saturday.
How did food appear on those days?
A tray photographed inside the room contained Friday’s takeout container.
Michael recognized it.
He had placed it outside the door Friday night.
He told himself Diane would pass it through.
He never checked.
Investigators reconstructed a pattern neither parent wanted to own.
One left food.
The other assumed delivery.
One heard silence.
The other called it stubbornness.
One noticed water.
The other assumed bottles.
Every gap in care was filled not by action, but by assumption.
Michael stepped back.
“When did you last see her?”
Diane’s expression shifted.
Barely.
“What do you mean?”
“See her.”
“I bring food.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Diane’s voice hardened.
“She takes the trays after I leave.”
Michael looked toward the tray slot installed near the bottom of the door.
There was a plate still visible inside.
He crouched.
The food had not moved.
His stomach dropped.
“Diane.”
She said nothing.
Michael stood.
“When did you last physically see our daughter?”
Diane looked at the lock.
Then at him.
May you like
“Monday.”
It was Sunday.
