Chapter 3 - The Threat On The Stairs
Panic flooded my veins with the force of an electric shock.
I shoved the digital audio recorder back behind the paint cans exactly as I had found it.
I scrambled up the wooden basement stairs, each step sending sharp, blinding spikes of pain through my surgical incision.
I reached the kitchen just as the front deadbolt began to turn.
I pulled the basement door shut, praying the damaged latch wouldn't give away the forced entry, and leaned heavily against the kitchen island, gasping for breath.
Ryan pushed open the front door carrying a paper grocery bag.
His eyes swept over the foyer, then locked onto me standing in the kitchen, trembling and soaked in cold sweat.
His warm, casual expression vanished instantly, replaced by a dark, assessing chill.
"What are you doing down here, Megan?" he asked, setting the groceries onto the entryway table. "You're supposed to be resting upstairs with Iris."
"I... I needed a glass of water," I lied, my voice shaking as I pointed to the sink.
Ryan walked toward me with slow, measured steps.
His gaze drifted past my shoulder, landing squarely on the wood frame of the basement door.
A tiny sliver of splintered white paint lay on the linoleum floor right beneath the brass latch.
Ryan stopped two feet away from me.
He didn't shout.
He didn't raise his hand.
He simply reached out and took my wrist, squeezing it just hard enough to let me know he was in complete control of my physical reality.
"Did you go downstairs?" he asked, his tone terrifyingly level.
"No," I whispered.
"Don't lie to me, Megan," he said, tightening his grip until my fingers went numb. "You're behaving like an addict searching for a fix. You're tearing our house apart while our daughter sleeps upstairs."
"I am not an addict!" I yelled, pulling my arm back with everything I had left. "I had major surgery six days ago! You locked my medicine in a toolbox and you're keeping audio files of me in the basement!"
Ryan went completely rigid.
For a fraction of a second, raw fury flared behind his eyes, followed immediately by cold calculation.
"You went through my private workbench," he said quietly.
"I found the recorder, Ryan. What are you doing? Why are you trying to make me look crazy?"
Ryan pulled his phone from his suit pocket and tapped the screen twice.
He turned the screen toward me.
On the display was an open draft of an email addressed to Child Protective Services - Lancaster County Intake.
Attached to the email were three audio files and photos of the notebook pages he had been writing since Sunday morning.
"You take one more step toward that basement," Ryan whispered, leaning in until his breath was hot against my cheek, "and I hit send. I tell them you have severe postpartum psychosis and a prescription drug dependency."
Tears spilled over my cheeks as I stared at the man I had married.
"You would take my baby away from me?"
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"I would protect my daughter from a mother who cannot control herself," Ryan answered calmly, putting the phone back in his pocket.
"Now go back upstairs, Megan. Lie in bed. And wait until I decide you deserve your dinner."
