Chapter 3 - The Trap Beneath the Board
The afternoon sun suddenly felt oppressive. The sounds of the party drifting from the lawn seemed to distort, echoing strangely in my ears.
“Attached what?” I demanded, my voice trembling with a mixture of terror and white-hot rage. “What did she put under the cake board?”
Sarah swallowed hard. “I didn't see the exact item until after they left and I went to check the prep station. My clerk described it as a small, flat, waterproof electronic device—about the size of a matchbox, secured with heavy-duty industrial adhesive right to the underside of the thick cardboard base.”
A tracking device.
My mind raced through a horrifying labyrinth of logic. Spencer hadn't just faked the gender reveal to play a sick joke. He had orchestrated a deliberate, premeditated trap. By tricking Chloe into believing she was having a girl, he was setting up a psychological narrative—and by planting a GPS tracker underneath the cake board, which we would undoubtedly keep as a keepsake or carry inside our home or vehicle, he was tracking our movements or preparing something far more sinister.
“Where is the cake right now?” I asked, grabbing Sarah’s shoulders.
“It’s sitting right there on the patio table,” Sarah replied, pointing frantically through the gap in the van doors. “Your guests are cutting pieces and eating it as we speak!”
I didn't hesitate another second. I spun around on my heel and sprinted out from behind the delivery van, my sneakers pounding hard against the grass.
As I burst back into the open seating area, my eyes locked onto the patio table. Several guests were holding paper plates with slices of pink cake. Spencer was standing by the table, laughing warmly as he handed a glass of sparkling cider to Aunt Linda. Chloe was seated in a wrought-iron patio chair, looking down at her half-eaten slice of cake with that same haunting, hollow expression of quiet dread.
She hadn't even taken a bite. Her maternal instincts had screamed at her long before mine had caught up.
“Mom?” Chloe looked up as I rushed over, panting heavily, my face undoubtedly drained of all color. “Where did you go? Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.”
I didn't answer her immediately. I lunged across the table, grabbed the edge of the heavy cardboard cake board—still supporting the remaining half of the frosted cake—and hoisted the entire structure off the table.
“Hey! What are you doing?!” Spencer’s voice cut through the air, sharp and suddenly aggressive. His easygoing, loving facade dropped away in an instant, replaced by a dark, feral panic. He took two long strides forward, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist. “Put that down! Everyone is watching! Have you lost your mind?”
“Get your hands off me!” I screamed, whipping my arm away with a force that surprised even myself.
The entire party froze. The music playing softly from the patio speakers cut off as my husband, alarmed by the commotion, hit the pause button. Dozens of pairs of eyes turned toward us in absolute shock.
“Mom, stop!” Chloe cried out, standing up from her chair and rushing to block Spencer. “What is wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?”
“Chloe, step away from him right now,” I ordered, my voice trembling as I flipped the heavy cake board upside down in front of everyone.
The white frosted cake slid slightly, but anchored firmly to the bottom of the board was a small, sleek, black magnetic tracking beacon, wrapped tightly in clear packing tape. A tiny red LED light was blinking rhythmically inside the plastic casing.
The silence in the backyard was absolute. You could have heard a pin drop on the grass.
Chloe stared down at the blinking device attached to her baby’s gender reveal cake, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes slowly drifted up from the tracker to her husband’s face.
Spencer stood paralyzed, his complexion turning a sickly, pasty gray. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He looked like a man who had just been caught standing over a smoking gun.
“What… what is that?” Chloe whispered, her voice cracking with a devastation that tore right through my soul. She looked back at me, tears spilling over her lower lashes. “Mom… what is that on my cake?”
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Before I could answer, Spencer lunged forward, not toward me, but toward the gate.
He bolted like a sprinter out of the blocks, shoving past Uncle Paul and sprinting across the lawn toward his parked BMW in the driveway.
