Chapter 4
Back in the lobby, the harsh fluorescent lights seemed to hum louder, vibrating against the quiet tension filling the room. Toby sat precisely where Leo had left him, staring at his bruised, bandaged hands. Clara had wrapped them in sterile gauze after applying an antiseptic ointment in the back room, working in absolute silence while Leo stood guard by the sliding front door, his eyes fixed on the empty street outside.
The white kitten, now cleaned and resting comfortably in a heated recovery cage, let out a soft chirp from the back ward. Toby flinched at the sound, his eyes darting toward the double doors before looking up at Clara as she walked back into the lobby.
“Is she safe?” the boy whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner.
Clara stopped a few feet away, acutely aware of Leo’s heavy footsteps approaching from behind her. She knelt down so she was at eye level with the young boy, ignoring the warning glare she felt burning into the back of her neck from the man standing by the window.
“The kitten is going to be fine, Toby,” Clara said softly, choosing her words with excruciating care. “And your hands are protected. But we need to talk about what happened at home. We need to talk about the red door.”
Before Toby could answer, a heavy hand gripped Clara’s shoulder, pulling her upright with unexpected force. Leo stepped between them, his face impassive, masking a roiling storm of fury.
“The boy is exhausted, Clara. He doesn't know what he’s saying. Nightmares and shock do strange things to an eight-year-old imagination,” Leo said smoothly, though his grip on Clara’s shoulder remained bruisingly tight. He released her abruptly and reached down to take Toby by the upper arm, hauling the boy to his feet with rough efficiency. “We’re leaving. The clinic is closed.”
Toby didn't cry out. He had learned long ago that crying only prolonged the agony. But as Leo guided him toward the glass front door, the boy managed to leave behind a silent, desperate message. His small heel scraped hard against the newly washed linoleum near the counter, gouging a distinct, crescent-shaped mark right into the wax—a physical echo of the red door he kept referencing.
May you like
Clara watched them step out into the chilly autumn night. The old pickup truck idling at the curb rattled to life with a noisy exhaust pipe, its red taillights glowing like dying embers in the gathering fog.
She stood alone in the quiet clinic, her chest tight with a suffocating sense of responsibility. She walked over to the counter and looked down at the fresh scratch Toby had left in the floor. It pointed directly toward the old storm cellar doors located on the exterior side of the building—doors that led to the abandoned municipal drainage tunnels running beneath the entire block, including the old toolshed behind Leo’s suburban property.
