Chapter 3 - Behind Locked Doors“I don’t have the key on me,” Evelyn lied instantly, her hand darting instinctively toward the pocket of her designer linen trousers.
I didn’t argue. Years of military discipline had taught me how to assess a physical obstacle and eliminate it. Before she could take another step, I planted the heel of my boot square against the hollow core of the door, just beside the doorknob.
CRACK.
The cheap wood splintered, the latch tore through the frame, and the door slammed inward against the wall with a thunderous echo.
“Mark! Have you lost your mind?!” Evelyn shrieked, lunging forward to grab my arm, but I shrugged her off with a single, brutal jerk of my shoulder.
I stepped into the room, and the breath left my lungs as if I’d taken a physical blow.
It wasn't a bedroom anymore. It was a holding cell.
The curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the afternoon sun. The room smelled of antiseptic, stale urine, and unwashed sheets. In the center of the space stood a single hospital bed with side rails locked in the upright position.
And huddled against the far corner, wrapped in a threadbare grey blanket, was my mother.
“Sarah?” I choked out, the word tearing raw from my throat.
May you like
My mother raised her head. The woman who used to grade essays with a red pen and laugh like a bell now had hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and purple bruises mottling her forearms. But when her gaze locked onto mine, there was no fog of dementia in those eyes. Only a fierce, undying spark of absolute recognition.
“Mark?” she whispered, her voice cracking like dry timber. “My boy… you came back.”
