Chapter 22 - The Midnight Intruder
David took the stairs three at a time, his chest heaving, his vision narrowing into a desperate tunnel. When he reached Maya’s bedroom at the end of the second-floor hallway, Leah was already standing in the center of the nursery. She was clutching Maya against her shoulder with white-knuckled intensity, her eyes wide with unadulterated horror.
"Look," Leah whispered, pointing a trembling finger toward the vintage white crib tucked beneath the bay window.
The window above the crib was closed and locked, but the sheer curtains were fluttering slightly from the central air vent. Inside the crib, resting on Maya’s pink quilted mattress where she was supposed to sleep in less than an hour, was a pristine porcelain doll.
The doll was an antique, dressed in an immaculate baptismal gown. Its ceramic face had been painted with eerie precision, but someone had used red wax to draw a jagged line across its throat. Tied around the doll’s wrist by a red silk ribbon was an infant hospital bracelet.
David approached the crib with hesitant, wooden steps, feeling the floorboards creak under his weight. He leaned down and read the faded plastic band on the doll's wrist.
*Baby Boy Vance. Born: October 14. Mother: Evelyn Vance.*
"That's mine," David choked out, the air leaving his lungs. "That’s my birth bracelet. My mother kept it in a locked safe in her master bedroom in Chicago. The police seized everything during the trial."
"How did it get here, David?" Leah’s voice cracked, rising into a panicked crescendo. "We are a thousand miles away! We changed our last names! We bought this house through an anonymous LLC! Nobody knows where we are!"
Before David could answer, his smartphone vibrated violently on the dresser. The screen lit up in the dim nursery.
*UNKNOWN CALLER.*
David exchanged a terrified glance with Leah. He stepped between his wife and the window, his thumb hovering over the screen. He tapped the green icon and put the phone on speaker.
"Who is this?" David demanded, his voice trembling with fury.
A man’s voice answered—deep, measured, and chillingly professional. It was not his mother.
"Mr. David Vance? Or should I say, Mr. David Miller?" the voice inquired calmly.
"Who the hell are you, and how did you get this number?"
"My name is Dr. Harrison Scott. I am the chief medical director at Oakridge Psychiatric Facility," the man said. A heavy pause hung on the line. "Mr. Vance, I am calling because there was a catastrophic incident at our facility three hours ago."
David gripped the edge of the crib until his knuckles turned bloodless. "What incident?"
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"Your mother, Evelyn Vance, is no longer in her room," Dr. Scott said softly. "At 4:15 PM, she staged a suicide attempt, ambushed the transport nurse, and bypassed the perimeter security with an outside accomplice. Mr. Vance... your mother is gone."
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