Chapter 7 - The Night We Pretended to Sleep
Sheriff Danner had told me not to move. No matter what I saw, no matter how close he got to the glass. "You let the camera do the work," he'd said that afternoon in my kitchen, his palm flat on the table. "You intervene, you contaminate the evidence and you put your little girl at risk. You lie still and you breathe."
I kept hearing that when I tucked Lily in at 9:14.
We did everything the same. I dimmed the crystal lamp on the ornate nightstand until the bedroom fell to that warm low light we always used. The satin bedding rustled as Lily climbed in beside me in her light pink ruffled dress, her gray bunny tucked hard against her chest. Her pink bows were a little crooked. I didn't fix them.
"You wanna read?" I asked.
She shook her head and held the bunny tighter. The open picture book from last time was closed on the foot of the bed. I didn't open it.
Instead I set the bait glass exactly where Danner told me to — half-filled with water, centered on the dark wood nightstand with the curved trim, the lamp base behind it where the hidden lens could see it clear. My own navy pajamas felt too warm. The white piping at the collar scratched at my neck.
Lily looked at the glass, then at the tall double doors. They were closed now, the brass handles catching the lamplight. She knew what we were doing without me explaining too much. I'd told her we were playing the quiet game, that she had to pretend to be asleep like a bunny and not make a sound even if she heard footsteps. That was all she could handle.
"You remember the game?" I whispered.
She nodded, her eyes wide.
"Super quiet. Like we're both sleeping. Okay?"
"Okay," she whispered back, and curled on her side facing me, bunny between us.
I clicked the lamp down to its lowest setting and lay back against the satin pillows. I slowed my breathing like Danner had coached — in through the nose, out slow, shoulders down. I closed my eyes to a slit, just enough to watch the doors. Lily's breathing evened out next to me until I couldn't tell if she was actually falling asleep or just doing a very good job pretending.
The house ticked. The highway two roads over hummed faintly. Somewhere downstairs the old radiator knocked once.
Then the cool sliver of light appeared.
The double doors eased open a half inch, then an inch. No knock. No voice. Just the faint drag of wood and a line of hallway light cutting across the dark bedroom floor. My chest tightened so fast I had to force the next breath not to hitch.
A shadow filled the gap. Ray.
He'd lived in the guest room since my wife's surgery last year — my wife's brother, the one who helped with night feedings and school pick-ups when I had to be at the tower for foundation events. He knew the house. He knew I took water before bed.
He waited a beat at the threshold, listening. I kept my eyes closed, breathing slow. Lily didn't move. Her little hand had found the sleeve of my pajama and held it.
He stepped in. Stocking feet, no shoes. He didn't turn on a light. He moved straight to the nightstand like he'd done it before, like he knew exactly where not to creak.
I could see him now through my lashes. Danner's camera was tucked inside the hollowed base of a photo frame on the dresser, angled right at the nightstand, its little red dot covered with tape but still recording. Hallway light fell across Ray's face as he leaned over the glass.
He pulled something from the pocket of his sweatpants — a small folded paper packet, creased into a triangle. He uncapped it with his thumb, tapped it once. White powder sifted into the half-filled water. He swirled the glass just enough with his wrist to dissolve it. No splash. Practiced.
The water clouded. It wasn't clear anymore. It went faintly milky, little particles catching the lamplight before they vanished.
My whole body wanted to sit up and grab his wrist. My hand twitched against the satin sheet. I caught it and pressed my palm flat, remembering Danner's voice: you let the camera do the work.
Ray set the glass down exactly where it had been, centered on the wood. He glanced toward the bed. For a second his eyes passed over me — over Lily curled against my side — and I was sure he knew I was awake. But my breathing stayed slow. Lily stayed still, her grip on my sleeve tightening.
He folded the empty packet and slipped it back in his pocket, then backed toward the doors the same way he came, careful, quiet. The sliver of hallway light narrowed as he eased the double doors shut until only a thin line remained. His shadow was gone.
I didn't move for a long time. I counted to sixty the way Danner told me, listening to Lily's breath and my own heart hammering against the pillows.
When I finally lifted my head, the bait glass on the ornate nightstand was visibly clouded under the low lamp glow. The powder hadn't fully settled.
Lily's eyes opened. She looked at me, then at the glass, then back at the doors.
I put my finger to my lips and whispered, "You did so good, bunny. So good."
May you like
She nodded once, buried her face in the gray bunny's ear, and didn't let go of my sleeve.
I didn't touch that glass. I didn't need to. The camera had caught his hand, the packet, and his face in the hallway light, just like Danner said it would. And I was awake.
