Chapter 2
I waved goodbye to Mrs. Gable, climbed into my truck, and turned the key. The engine sputtered and roared to life. I felt a deep, warm rush of anticipation in my chest. I couldn't wait to get home. Elodie had been struggling with back pain all week, carrying the heavy weight of our unborn son. I had slipped out while she was napping to get the wood, planning to surprise her by having the crib completely assembled by dinnertime.
The drive through our quiet suburban neighborhood was peaceful. The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of old oak trees, casting long, golden shadows across the pavement. Our house was small—a modest single-story ranch with chipping white paint on the trim and a slightly overgrown front lawn—but it was ours. It was a safe haven. No servants, no security details, no cold marble floors.
But as I turned onto my street, the peace shattered. My foot instinctively slammed on the brake, bringing the truck to a harsh stop at the end of the driveway. Parked directly in front of my house, blocking the path to my garage, was a sleek, midnight-black Lincoln Town Car. The windows were tinted pitch-black. The paint gleamed like wet ink.
My stomach tied itself into a cold, heavy knot. My mother. She wasn't supposed to be here. Adelaide Mercer never visited unless she had an agenda. Ever since Elodie got pregnant, my mother’s suffocating presence had increased. She would show up unannounced, criticizing our home, insulting Elodie’s diet, and aggressively demanding that we move back to the family estate so the baby could be raised with "proper resources."
Elodie always handled it with grace, but I knew it terrified her. My mother didn't see a grandson; she saw an heir. She saw property. I threw the truck into park, killed the engine, and grabbed my keys. I didn’t bother grabbing the wood from the back. I walked quickly across the lawn, my boots silent on the grass. The front door was unlocked.
May you like
I stepped inside the house. It was too quiet. The air conditioning hummed gently from the ceiling vents, but there was a heavy, suffocating tension in the air. "Elodie?" I called out softly. No answer. I took off my heavy boots by the door and walked down the short hallway in my socks. The house felt entirely wrong. The scent of Elodie's lavender candles had been overpowered by the sharp, expensive scent of my mother's Tom Ford perfume. As I approached the living room, I heard it. Coming from the kitchen.
"Drink it, Elodie. Just swallow it, and this will all be over." My mother’s voice wasn’t loud. It was cold enough to freeze the blood in my veins. I stopped breathing. I heard the sharp sound of glass hitting the granite counter. A desperate, wet, choking cough. Then, the terrible, breathless sound of Elodie weeping. A sound of pure, helpless panic.
