Chapter 4 - The Return to the SilenceAt 2:00 PM on Monday afternoon, a sleek black sports car pulled into the driveway of 412 Maple Drive.
Mark stepped out of the vehicle wearing aviator sunglasses, a fresh tan from the Aspen slopes, and a relaxed, arrogant smile. He carried his leather overnight bag over his shoulder, humming a song as he unlocked the grand front door.
“Clara!” he called out casually, tossing his car keys onto the marble entryway table. “I'm back! The nanny better be here because I have a four o'clock board call!”
Silence answered him.
The house was freezing cold. The air conditioning had been left running, and a stale, metallic odor lingered in the air.
Mark frowned, taking off his sunglasses. “Clara? Stop playing games. I know you're mad, but I'm not in the mood for silent treatment.”
He walked down the main hallway toward the nursery, expecting to find me sitting in the rocking chair, red-eyed and waiting for an apology he had no intention of giving.
He pushed open the white nursery door.
“Look, about Aspen—”
The words froze in his throat.
The nursery was completely gutted.
The custom crib was gone. The changing table was gone. The luxury bassinet was gone. All of Leo’s clothes, toys, and supplies had been cleared out, leaving the room completely bare.
And in the center of the room, covering the cream-colored carpet, was a massive, dark, dried crimson stain—a terrifying footprint of the blood I had lost three days ago.
Mark’s face drained of every drop of color. The smug, arrogant smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, sickening wave of confusion.
“What the hell...?” he muttered, stepping backward. “Clara?!”
He pulled out his phone, rapidly dialing my number.
“The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”
Panicking, he dialed the nanny agency. “Where is my wife?! Why isn't the nanny at my house?!”
“Mr. Vance?” the agency manager answered coldly. “Your contract was canceled forty-eight hours ago by Dr. Julian Vance following an emergency medical evacuation. Do not call this agency again.”
Before Mark could process the manager's words, the heavy front door opened downstairs.
May you like
Heavy, authoritative footsteps echoed up the hardwood staircase.
Mark turned around frantically as two uniformed Los Angeles County Sheriff’s deputies stepped into the doorway of the ruined nursery, flanked by a tall man in a bespoke charcoal suit holding a thick leather briefcase—Arthur Sterling.
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