Chapter 2 - The Stolen Safe
By Tuesday afternoon, the pain had settled into a deep, throbbing ache that radiated down both of my thighs.
Every time Iris cried, I had to roll onto my side, push up with my elbows, and bite down on a washcloth to keep from screaming out loud.
Ryan had gone back to work at his architectural firm for a half-day, leaving me alone in the house with the baby for the first time.
Before he walked out the door, he had kissed my forehead and reminded me that the neighbors were home if there was an emergency.
He had also double-checked the deadbolt on the basement door.
The moment his silver sedan pulled out of the driveway, I gripped the wooden banister and dragged myself down the stairs one agonizing step at a time.
My incision burned with every inch of descent, but survival had completely overridden fear.
I reached the bottom of the stairs, walked into the kitchen, and grabbed the heavy butcher knife from the wooden block on the counter.
I walked over to the basement door.
The brass lock was engaged, but the door frame was fifty years old, made of soft white pine.
I wedged the flat blade of the knife into the jamb near the latch bolt, throwing all my body weight against the wood.
The latch slipped with a loud, violent crack.
The door swung inward into the musty, cool darkness of the basement.
I switched on the bare overhead bulb and moved down the wooden stairs, clutching the handrail with white-knuckled desperation.
On the center of Ryan’s pristine workbench sat the red steel Craftsman toolbox.
It was secured by a heavy brass Master Lock padlock.
I searched the magnetic tool racks, the pegboard, and every drawer beneath the bench, looking for a duplicate key or a pair of bolt cutters.
Behind a row of paint cans on the bottom shelf, my fingers brushed against a small, flat plastic case.
I pulled it out into the dim light.
It wasn't a key.
It was a brand-new digital audio recording device, its tiny red standby light blinking steadily in the gloom.
Attached to the recorder was a piece of masking tape labeled in Ryan's precise, clean lettering: Living Room / Nursery Audio Log - Megan Behavioral Baseline.
My breath caught in my throat.
He hadn't just been writing fake notes in a spiral notebook.
He had bugged our home.
He was recording every whimper, every cry of pain, and every exhausted plea I made, cataloging them like evidence in an ongoing criminal trial.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
May you like
The screen lit up with a notification from our home security application: Driveway Motion Detected.
Ryan's sedan had just pulled back into the driveway, four hours earlier than he had promised.
