Chapter 3 - Breaking and Entering Into HellI didn't call the police yet. I knew how this system worked, especially in affluent suburbs like Dublin. Ethan was a wealthy corporate lawyer with deep pockets and connections to local judges. If I called dispatch from my apartment, it would take twenty minutes for an officer to arrive, giving Gloria time to clean up, dress Hailey in long pants, and spin a web of lies about my daughter being "clumsy" or "imaginative."
I needed proof. Live, undeniable, bleeding proof.
My car tires squealed as I peeled out of my apartment complex parking lot in Columbus, pushing the speedometer past eighty on Route 33. The rain pounded against my windshield, blurring the highway lights into streaks of neon agony.
Forty-five minutes. That was how long it would take me to reach the Miller estate.
My mind raced back through the marriage. Why didn't I see it sooner? The sudden weight loss when Hailey stayed with them for a week. The way she flinched whenever someone raised their voice. Ethan’s cold, detached gaslighting whenever I questioned his mother’s overbearing involvement in our lives: “My mother is a pillar of the community, Sarah. You’re just insecure because you didn't come from money.”
When I pulled onto the manicured, tree-lined streets of Dublin, the neighborhood looked peaceful, almost hauntingly serene. Massive brick colonial homes sat behind sweeping green lawns, their porch lights glowing warmly against the twilight storm.
Except for one.
Number 442 Briarwood Lane. The Miller residence.
Darkness hung over the back wing of the house, but a single luxury BMW SUV sat in the circular driveway. Ethan and Gloria hadn't gone to the country club at all. Or maybe they had come back early.
I parked three houses down, killing my headlights. I didn't use the front door. I knew the layout of that house better than I wanted to. I crept through the side yard, past the perfectly trimmed boxwood hedges, heading straight for the rear service entrance that led directly into the mudroom and laundry area.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I tried the back door handle. Locked.
Panic threatened to choke me. I scanned the area, spotting a heavy cast-iron garden gnome sitting near the patio steps. Without a second thought, I grabbed it, swung it back, and smashed it directly into the glass pane of the side door.
May you like
CRASH.
Shards of glass rained onto the tile floor. I reached through the jagged opening, flicked the interior deadbolt, and stepped into the house that had once been my prison.
