CHAPTER 2 — The Drive Home
CHAPTER 2 — The Drive Home
The elevator couldn't move fast enough.
Andrew slammed his fist against the close-door button so hard his knuckles turned white.
Twenty-eight floors.
Twenty-seven.
Twenty-six.
Each passing second felt like another chance for something irreversible to happen inside his own home.
His mother's voice was still coming through the phone.
"...Andrew? Are you listening?"
He stared at the nursery footage instead of answering.
Emma hadn't moved.
She remained curled on the hardwood floor beside the crib, one hand pressed against her ribs where she'd struck the dresser.
His mother stood with Noah in her arms, gently rocking the baby now that Emma was no longer touching him.
To anyone walking into that room, Margaret Collins looked like the perfect grandmother.
Calm.
Patient.
Protective.
Only Andrew had just watched what happened thirty seconds earlier.
The doors opened.
He sprinted through the marble lobby, nearly knocking over a security guard.
"Mr. Collins?"
No response.
Outside, freezing rain hit his face like needles.
He barely remembered climbing into his black Range Rover before the engine roared to life.
Downtown Chicago blurred into streaks of white headlights and wet pavement as he accelerated toward Interstate 290.
His phone remained mounted beside the steering wheel.
The nursery camera never left his sight.
His mother was still talking.
"I had to calm Noah down because Emma was hysterical."
Andrew's jaw tightened.
He watched the live feed.
Emma slowly stood.
Not to fight.
Not to argue.
She simply reached toward her son.
Margaret stepped backward.
One deliberate step.
Keeping the baby away.
Emma froze.
Then she folded her arms around herself instead, as though asking for permission to breathe.
Andrew gripped the steering wheel harder.
His mother continued speaking into the phone with practiced concern.
"I honestly think she's becoming dangerous."
Dangerous.
The word echoed inside the SUV.
But now Andrew could see exactly who it described.
Traffic crawled through the rain.
Every red light felt like an insult.
Every slow-moving truck became an enemy.
His heartbeat hammered louder than the windshield wipers.
Then something else happened on the camera.
Margaret laid Noah back inside the crib.
She looked directly toward the ceramic moon decoration.
Toward the hidden camera.
Andrew's pulse stopped.
Did she know?
For three endless seconds she stared almost directly into the lens.
Then she smiled.
Not warmly.
Not kindly.
A slow...
knowing...
smile.
Andrew felt cold spread through his chest.
Had she seen the camera before?
Or was it simply coincidence?
He couldn't tell.
But suddenly he realized something horrifying.
If she knew about the camera...
then she'd been performing.
His phone buzzed again.
Emma.
Calling.
Andrew answered immediately.
"Emma."
Silence.
Only shaky breathing.
Finally...
"I... I'm sorry."
Those four words shattered him.
"Sorry for what?"
"I couldn't keep Noah from crying."
Andrew closed his eyes.
"No, Emma."
"I'm trying harder now."
"No."
"I'll do better."
"No!"
His voice cracked so loudly that a passing driver glanced toward him.
On the other end of the call, Emma went completely silent.
It was the silence of someone expecting to be punished.
Andrew whispered instead.
"You don't have to apologize."
Another silence.
Longer this time.
Then came a tiny question that broke something inside him forever.
"...Am I allowed to hold my own baby tonight?"
The SUV drifted onto the shoulder.
Andrew slammed the brakes.
Rain pounded across the windshield while traffic rushed past.
He couldn't breathe.
Am I allowed...
Allowed?
Who had convinced his wife that she needed permission to hold her own child?
He knew the answer.
And for the first time in his life...
he hated his mother.
Memories flooded back with brutal clarity.
Margaret insisting Emma should sleep in the guest room because "new mothers need isolation."
Margaret criticizing every diaper change.
Every bottle.
Every feeding.
Every lullaby.
Every outfit.
Every decision.
Always smiling while doing it.
Always sounding helpful.
Always making Andrew believe she was rescuing the family from Emma's incompetence.
Except now...
Every memory had another version.
The real version.
Emma wasn't forgetting things because of depression.
She was doubting herself because someone reminded her every hour that she was failing.
She wasn't distant.
She was exhausted.
She wasn't emotionally unstable.
She had been psychologically dismantled piece by piece inside her own home.
And Andrew had signed off on every single day of it.
Twenty-three minutes later, he turned onto the quiet streets of Hinsdale.
The Collins estate stood at the end of a private lane surrounded by bare winter trees.
Normally the house looked welcoming.
Tonight...
it looked like a crime scene waiting to happen.
Only one upstairs window glowed.
The nursery.
Andrew didn't bother parking properly.
The SUV skidded across the circular driveway before stopping sideways near the front steps.
He jumped out before the engine even died.
The front door was locked.
His key shook so violently in his hand that he missed the lock twice.
Finally—
Click.
The house was silent.
Too silent.
No crying.
No voices.
Only the ticking of the grandfather clock.
Andrew climbed the stairs two at a time.
Halfway up...
he heard it.
His mother's voice.
Soft.
Gentle.
Almost affectionate.
"You see, Noah..."
She laughed quietly.
"Grandma always keeps you safe from bad people."
Andrew reached the nursery door.
His hand wrapped around the handle.
Then another voice.
Barely audible.
Emma.
Speaking through tears.
"Please... just let me feed him."
Margaret answered with chilling calm.
"You've done enough damage for one night."
Andrew's vision blurred with rage.
He shoved the nursery door open so hard it slammed against the wall with a crack that echoed through the entire house.
Three people turned.
Margaret.
Emma.
And little Noah.
For one frozen heartbeat...
nobody moved.
Then Margaret smiled.
"Andrew."
She sounded almost relieved.
"Thank goodness you're home."
But Andrew wasn't looking at her anymore.
He was looking at his wife.
At the fading bruise already forming along her shoulder.
At the swollen red marks around her wrist.
Marks that looked disturbingly like fingerprints.
His blood turned to ice.
Very slowly...
he looked back at his mother.
May you like
And for the first time in thirty-six years...
he saw a complete stranger standing in his son's nursery.
