Chapter 6: The Fabric Caught Beneath the Locked Door
I stayed on my knees at the threshold, close enough to see the dust gathered in the narrow seam beneath the wooden door. The hallway felt colder than the living room. Behind me, Lily and Tommy lay where I had placed them on the rug, within reach but away from the door. Lily’s eyes followed me without blinking. Tommy made no sound. His small chest rose beneath the fabric of his onesie, shallow and uneven.
The lock remained still. The door remained closed.
I ran the edge of my hand along the floorboards, careful not to touch the seam. Something pale showed beneath the door, no more than a thin line at first. I leaned closer. It was fabric, caught under the lower edge and pressed flat against the wood.
I recognized the color before I recognized the shape.
A piece of cloth had torn loose from Tommy’s onesie. The edge was ragged, not cut. One of the tiny threads had gathered dust from the hallway, while the rest disappeared into the darkness beyond the door. I looked back at him. His clothing was wrinkled and stretched near one side, with a small missing section that matched the strip under the door.
For several seconds, I could not make the two things belong to the same house.
Tommy had been on the living-room floor. The cloth was at the locked room. The distance between them was only a few yards, but the hallway made it feel deliberate. I remembered Lily’s position beside him, her hands braced against the floor, and the way she had lifted her head when she saw me. I remembered how little strength there had been in that movement.
The easy explanation was that the fabric had been dragged there accidentally. A loose thread could catch on a nail, a splinter, a corner of furniture. But there was no furniture along that stretch of floor. The boards were bare. The strip had not merely fallen beside the door. It was held beneath it, pulled tight enough that the fibers disappeared under the wood.
I reached toward it, then stopped.
If I pulled, I might tear it free. If someone—or something—had placed it there, I might destroy the only physical connection between my children and the room. I kept my hand suspended above the floor until my fingers began to shake.
Behind me, Lily shifted. The rug whispered under her elbow. I turned and saw her trying to push herself upright. Her face had gone pale again, and one hand pressed against her stomach as if the effort hurt.
I crossed the hallway and lifted her carefully. She weighed almost nothing. Her arms settled around my neck without strength. I carried her to the couch, then returned for Tommy. He was warm but limp against my forearm, his head rolling toward my elbow. I laid him beside Lily and pulled the blanket over both of them, leaving the hallway in view.
The front door was still unlocked. I went back and turned the deadbolt, then checked the handle twice. I shut the interior door to the living room but left it open a few inches so I could see the couch and the locked room at once. It was the best separation the house offered. It did not feel like enough.
The fabric remained beneath the door.
I took the metal edge of my suitcase key from my pocket and held it up to the seam. It was too thick to lift the door safely, but thin enough to test whether the lower edge moved. I pressed it against the gap and felt resistance from inside, not the loose scrape of dust or a fallen object. The door did not rise.
I withdrew the key and looked toward the couch. Lily’s eyes were open. Tommy’s were not.
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The house gave no answer. Somewhere beyond the door, something made a faint contact with the other side—soft, brief, and close to the floor.
I placed my palm against the wood, then tightened my grip around the key. The cloth could not stay there, and waiting could not make the children safer. I moved the suitcase beside the threshold, opened it, and began searching for something narrow enough to widen the gap without tearing the fabric away.
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