Chapter 5 - The Empty Nursery
Released on bail paid by her estranged sister, Sarah stepped out of the precinct into the biting morning drizzle. Her body ached with a deep, visceral phantom pain. Her breasts were painfully engorged, leaking milk through her thin jacket, a cruel biological reminder of the baby who wasn't there to feed.
She took a taxi back to the suburban house she and Ethan had spent three years turning into a home. The front door was unlocked.
"Ethan?" she called out, stepping into the silent foyer.
No answer.
She climbed the stairs, her heart hammering against her ribs. The nursery door was wide open. Inside, the room had been ransacked with clinical precision. The white wooden crib was stripped bare. The colorful mobile of felt clouds and stars was gone. The dresser drawers hung open, completely emptied of Lily's tiny pink onesies, bibs, and swaddle blankets.
On the changing table, left behind like an insult, was a single sheet of paper.
It was a legal notice of divorce, filed on grounds of gross negligence and emotional cruelty, accompanied by a restraining order signed by a judge. Stapled to the back was a handwritten note in Ethan's neat, looping script:
*Do not contact me. Do not look for us. If you truly loved our daughter, you would let my mother heal the damage you caused.*
Sarah fell to her knees on the rug, pressing Lily’s forgotten pacifier against her mouth to muffle her agonizing screams. She wept until her throat was raw, until there were no tears left to shed.
When the silence settled back over the empty room, something cold and sharp replaced the grief inside her chest. She stood up, wiping her tear-stained cheeks with the back of her sleeve. Evelyn thought she had won. She thought Sarah was broken, discredited, and cast aside.
Sarah walked over to the corner of the nursery, looking up at the ceiling vent near the bookshelf. Nestled deep inside the metal slats, invisible to anyone who didn't know it was there, was a tiny black lens.
Six months ago, terrified of sudden infant death syndrome, Sarah had secretly installed a battery-powered nanny cam connected to a hidden cloud server.
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Her hands shook as she pulled out her phone and opened the forgotten app.
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