Chapter 7
Days bled into one another within the sterile confines of the maternity ward. Clara was recovering physically, the bruising on her back beginning to fade into a sickly shade of yellow and green, but her emotional state remained fragile. She spent hours staring out the window at the distant city skyline, jumping at every sudden noise in the hallway. Mark remained a steadfast presence, balancing running home to pick up fresh clothes with sitting by her bedside, but the weight of the impending legal battle hung heavily over them both.
On the fourth evening, just as visiting hours were drawing to a close, Mark kissed Clara’s forehead and told her he was going home to grab some more of her comfortable loungewear and check on the mail. The drive back to their quiet suburban neighborhood felt eerie. The streets were dark, streetlights casting long, distorted shadows across the asphalt.
When Mark pulled into their driveway, he noticed something odd immediately. The motion-sensor floodlight above the garage was dark, its bulb shattered on the concrete below. A cold knot tightened in Mark’s stomach. He killed the engine, remaining in his car for a moment with the headlights on, scanning the dark perimeter of the house. Everything looked still, but the front door—the door Maya had stormed through days ago—was slightly ajar, casting a thin sliver of light onto the porch.
Mark grabbed his heavy metal flashlight from the glove compartment, his heart pounding in his ears. He stepped out of the car, the crisp night air stinging his lungs, and crept up the front steps with extreme caution. He pushed the front door open wider with his foot, the hinges creaking softly in the quiet night.
"Hello?" Mark called out, his voice echoing in the empty hallway. There was no answer.
He stepped inside, flicking on his flashlight. The living room was just as they had left it in the immediate aftermath of the assault—the rug slightly rumpled, the pillows displaced. But something else was different. On the mahogany bookshelf, right in the center shelf, a small framed photograph of Clara and Mark on their wedding day had been smashed to pieces. Glass littered the wooden shelf, and scrawled across the wall in thick, red marker was a single, chilling word: Mine.
May you like
Mark felt a surge of pure rage override his fear. Maya had been back. She had broken into their home while they were both at the hospital, leaving a clear, menacing threat written on their wall. He pulled out his smartphone with trembling fingers, instantly dialing Detective Vance’s direct line.
"Detective, she was here," Mark said, his voice shaking with fury as he stared at the red lettering on the wall. "She broke into our house. You need to send someone over right now."
