Chapter 4 - The Silent House
The drive back to the house was a nightmare of icy roads and blinding snow. Blake’s hands shook so violently he could barely keep the car straight.
He didn't go straight to the hospital. Deep down, he was terrified. He needed to see the house first. He needed to convince himself that it wasn't as bad as Lucas had made it sound. He needed to find some shred of evidence that Sarah had walked out of the house on her own two feet, that she hadn't been abandoned.
He pulled into the driveway. The front door was wide open, swinging slightly in the freezing wind.
Blake’s heart hammered against his ribs. He stepped out of the car, his shoes sinking into the deep snow, and walked up the steps.
"Sarah?" he called out, his voice echoing in the cold hallway.
There was no answer. Only the whistling of the wind through the shattered glass of the side window pane.
He walked into the kitchen.
And there, the nightmare lay waiting for him.
The blue folder was exploded across the floor. Papers were scattered everywhere, soaked in a mixture of melted snow and a dark, unmistakable crimson. A massive pool of blood dried on the light-colored hardwood floor near the sofa, trailing off toward the door. It was a graphic, violent map of his wife's desperation.
Beside the blood trail lay a single, tiny baby sock that had slipped out of the overnight bag.
Blake fell to his knees, his hands dipping into the icy, wet floorboards. The reality of what he had done slammed into him with the force of a freight train. He had left her here. He had looked into her begging eyes, pulled his arm away, and walked out the door because his mother wanted to go to a sale.
He began to sob, the sound raw and choking, echoing through the empty, freezing house.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a text from his mother.
“Blake, don't let Lucas manipulate you. We are heading to the hospital now to make sure he isn't causing a scene. We will handle this as a family.”
May you like
Blake stared at the screen, a sudden, dark clarity washing over his grief.
"No," he whispered, standing up, his eyes locking onto the blood on his hands. "We are not a family."
