Chapter 10: A Practical Call Made From The Dark Hallway
I kept one hand against Lily’s shoulder while I studied the phone in my other hand. The screen lit the hallway in a cold square, showing the time and the missed calls I had not noticed when I first came through the door. Tommy lay beside her in his fabric onesie, his small chest lifting and falling with an effort that made me count each breath. The house remained silent except for the refrigerator cycling somewhere beyond the living room and the faint, irregular sound behind the locked door.
Until then, I had treated the house as a problem I could solve privately. I would find my wife. I would open the room. I would understand why the children had been left on the floor. But Lily's weakness had changed the order of everything. Whatever the door concealed, it could wait longer than they could.
I moved the suitcase against the hallway wall so it would not block anyone coming through the entrance. Then I carried Tommy to the couch, supporting his head with my forearm. Lily tried to follow on her hands and knees, but her arms gave out before she reached the rug. I lifted her too and placed her beside her brother. Her fingers caught in the fabric of my jacket and stayed there.
I used the phone to request necessary medical help. I entered the house address, described two children who appeared weak and exhausted, and reported that the five-year-old had been crawling on the floor while holding the baby. I did not write that my wife had abandoned them. I did not write what I suspected about the locked room. I recorded what I could see, then sent the request and watched for confirmation.
The response appeared without explanation, giving me an estimated arrival window. It was enough to make the outside world part of the house.
I returned to the couch and checked the children again. Lily's eyes opened when I touched her forehead. I could not tell whether she was watching me or the hallway. Her grip tightened around my sleeve, then loosened. Tommy did not wake.
I found water in the kitchen and brought back a clean glass, but I did not force either child to drink. The sink held two plates and a bottle turned on its side, its cap missing. On the counter, my wife's phone was gone. Her coat was gone too. I searched the entryway, the bedroom, and the small bathroom without finding her. Each room offered the same fact: she had left no ordinary explanation behind.
When I came back, a thin strip of paper rested on the floor beneath the locked door.
I stopped several feet away.
It had not been there when I carried Lily past that spot. I knew because I had looked at the threshold while trying to understand the scratches in the wood. Now the paper extended from the gap by less than an inch, white against the dark floor. One corner had been folded twice, as if someone inside had pushed it carefully rather than dropped it.
I did not touch it.
The phone vibrated again. The request had been received. Help was coming, and I would have to explain the children, the empty house, and the locked room to people who had no reason to trust my version of events.
Behind me, Lily made a small movement on the couch. From inside the room came one soft scrape, followed by silence.
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I knelt near the threshold without crossing the line of light from the phone. On the visible edge of the paper, I saw a dark mark shaped like the beginning of a handwritten letter.
Then the lock shifted.
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