Chapter 3 - The Locked Master Bedroom
The patio door was unlocked. Jean had always been notoriously sloppy about home security, assuming their gated neighborhood made them invincible. I slipped inside the dark, silent house, holding my breath as the familiar scent of expensive potpourri and lavender hit my nose.
The house felt dead. Not quiet—dead.
I pulled out my phone, turning on the flashlight app and dimming the screen to its lowest setting. I navigated through the open-concept kitchen and stepped into the grand foyer, heading straight for the carpeted staircase leading to the second-floor master suite.
Every step creaked under my sneakers, sounding like pistol shots in the cavernous silence.
When I reached the upstairs landing, I noticed something strange. The door to David and Jean’s master bedroom—a room that was normally left wide open—was firmly shut. And running along the wooden doorframe was a strip of heavy-duty duct tape, sealing the cracks around the perimeter.
My breath hitched.
I crept forward, my hands sweating against my phone. I reached out and gently pressed my ear against the painted wood of the master bedroom door.
At first, there was only a hollow, heavy silence.
Then, I heard it. A faint, muffled scratching sound from inside the room, followed by a weak, raspy groan that sounded less like a human voice and more like the breath of a dying animal.
“David?” I whispered into the dark hallway, my voice trembling.
The scratching sound stopped instantly.
“Hello? Is someone in there?” I called out a little louder, stepping closer and peeling back the strip of duct tape with my fingernails.
The tape ripped away with a sticky zip. I grabbed the brass doorknob, twisted it downward, and pushed the heavy door inward.
The wave of stale, suffocating air that hit my face made me gag. I swept my flashlight beam across the pitch-black bedroom. The king-sized bed was unmade. The walk-in closet doors were ajar. But near the corner by the en-suite bathroom, half-hidden behind a heavy mahogany privacy screen, something moved.
I stepped inside, my light beam cutting through the darkness.
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There, slumped against the baseboard radiator with his wrists bound tightly behind his back with industrial zip-ties and a thick strip of silver duct tape plastered across his mouth, was David.
He looked like a corpse. His cheeks were hollow, his lips cracked and bleeding from severe dehydration, and his eyes—bloodshot and wide with sheer terror—stared up at me from a face that had lost thirty pounds in a matter of weeks.
