The air conditioning in my sedan was blasting, but my skin burned as if I were locked inside a furnace. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. On the passenger seat, my phone rested with the nursery livestream still active, though I could no longer bear to look at the screen. I could only hear the lingering echoes of my mother’s voice—shrill, venomous, and entirely devoid of the warmth a grandmother should feel.

I slammed my car into park in the middle of the driveway, leaving the driver's door wide open as I sprinted up the front steps. I didn't bother knocking or using my key; I grabbed the brass handle, threw the weight of my shoulder against the heavy wood door, and burst into the foyer.

"Brooke!" I shouted, my voice cracking with adrenaline.

The silence that met me was suffocating.

The house smelled faintly of bleach and lavender—my mother’s signature cleaning obsession—overlaying a heavy, tense atmosphere. I rushed past the living room, kicking off my shoes without realizing it, and headed straight for the kitchen.

Brooke wasn't there. But the evidence of her struggle was unmistakable.

A bucket of soapy water sat on the tile floor, surrounded by scrubbing brushes and rags. Next to it was a damp sponge where Brooke had clearly been forced to clean baseboards on her hands and knees—a direct violation of every strict medical order her obstetrician had given us.

"Brooke!" I called out again, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.

From down the hallway, near the nursery, came a soft, melodic laugh. It wasn't the warm chuckle of a proud grandmother. It was chillingly theatrical, dripping with triumph.

"Oh, Travis," my mother’s voice drifted down the corridor, smooth and unhurried. "You're back early. Did your little corporate meetings lose their importance the moment you realized your wife couldn't even scrub a floor properly?"

I didn't answer. I broke into a dead sprint down the hall, my instincts screaming at me to protect my family.