Chapter 12 - SOMEONE HAD BEEN INSIDE THE HOUSE
I stared at the photograph.
The new blue blanket was visible.
So was the white lamp Claire had bought after Noah was born.
Those things had not been in the nursery before Mom left.
"She couldn't have taken this."
My voice sounded distant.
The caseworker looked at me.
"You're certain?"
"Completely."
Anna held Noah closer.
My first thought was the locks.
I had changed them.
Then the garage code.
I had changed that too.
Then I remembered the side door.
Years ago, we had installed an electronic keypad for contractors.
I had not used it in almost two years.
I opened the security settings.
The old code was still active.
My father had chosen it.
Mom knew it.
The entry log showed the keypad had been used four days earlier at 2:18 p.m.
I had been at the office.
Anna had been at Noah's pediatric appointment.
Someone had entered our house.
The cameras near the side entrance had been temporarily disconnected for renovation months earlier.
I had never reactivated them.
Anna looked terrified.
"She was in here."
I wanted to deny it.
I couldn't.
We contacted the police and documented the unauthorized entry.
Then I disabled every old access code.
That night, I slept on the nursery floor.
Anna protested.
I refused to move.
At 2:40 a.m., Noah began crying.
Anna laughed softly when she saw me trying to stand with half my face marked by the carpet.
For ten seconds, we were just new parents.
Exhausted.
Clumsy.
Normal.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Mom's voice came through.
"Ethan."
"How did you get inside my house?"
Silence.
"Mom."
"I wanted to see my grandson's room."
"You broke into our home."
"I used a code I've had for years."
"After I told you not to come here."
She began crying.
"You are treating me like a criminal."
"You entered our house without permission."
"Because she won't let me see my grandson."
"This was my decision."
"No."
Her voice sharpened.
"Nothing has been your decision since you met her."
I looked at Anna.
She was watching me.
Months earlier, those words might have worked.
Not anymore.
"You need help, Mom."
She became silent.
"I mean that."
"You think I'm crazy."
"No."
"I think you're hurting people and calling it love."
Her breathing changed.
Then she whispered, "Your father used to say that."
My skin prickled.
"I know."
She gasped.
I understood immediately.
She knew I had heard the recording.
For the first time, Mom had no script.
No accusation.
No manipulation ready.
Then she said something almost too quietly to hear.
"Your father was going to leave me."
I closed my eyes.
"Maybe he should have."
Mom hung up.
May you like
The next morning, she disappeared.
And for six weeks, none of us heard from her.
