Chapter 4 - The Locked HouseMy Porsche Cayenne tore out of the downtown parking garage, tires squealing against the concrete as I merged onto Interstate 5 North. The digital dash clock flashed numbers that blurred together. Normally, the drive from downtown Seattle to our suburban home in Bellevue took thirty-five minutes in midday traffic. I shaved it down to seventeen, driving with the reckless, laser-focused intensity of a man whose world was actively burning down.
My phone buzzed repeatedly in the cupholder. It was a text message from my mother:
“Ethan, where are you? Megan threw a tantrum and made a mess on the nursery floor. You need to come home and deal with your wife. She’s completely unhinged.”
I didn't reply. I didn't have words for her. Words were for human beings; what lived inside my mother’s skin was a monster wearing a familiar face.
When I pulled into our driveway, the scene was already chaotic. A Bellevue Fire Department aid car and an ambulance were parked curbside with their emergency flashers painting the manicured lawns in flashing red and blue. Right behind them sat a nondescript white van with Bellevue Professional Locksmith emblazoned on the side.
I cut the engine, threw open the door, and sprinted up the walkway.
The locksmith was standing by the front door holding a heavy drill, looking confused as two uniformed police officers stood nearby questioning what was happening.
"That’s my house," I yelled, flashing my driver’s license. "Did you change the locks?"
"Just finished the deadbolt on the front and side doors, Mr. Carter," the locksmith said nervously, holding up a ring of newly cut brass keys. "Nobody inside can get out, and nobody outside can get in without these."
"Good. Give me the master set," I demanded, snatching the keys from his palm.
One of the police officers, a stern-faced sergeant named Ramirez, stepped directly into my path, resting his hand casually on his duty belt. "Hold on, sir. Dispatch reported a medical emergency and a domestic disturbance. What the hell is going on here?"
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"My mother is inside," I said, my voice shaking with adrenaline. "She physically abused my postpartum wife, prevented her from getting medical help, and caused internal hemorrhaging. The back doors are locked, the front doors are locked, and she is holding my newborn son inside. I want her removed from my property immediately."
Sergeant Ramirez’s eyes narrowed. He looked at the paramedics waiting anxiously behind us, then back at me. "Understood. Let's make entry."
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