Chapter 17: Punishment

The front door closed. The heavy *thud* of the deadbolt felt like a coffin lid slamming shut.

I stood at the top of the stairs, clutching the water carafe until my fingers were white. Jasmine was gone. My one chance, my one witness, had driven away thinking I was a confused, hormonal woman who forgot to leave a note.

Mark looked up at me. His face was a mask of weary patience, the kind you wear when dealing with a toddler who has thrown a tantrum in a grocery store.

"Go to your room, Elara," he said.

"I'm not a child," I spat, though my voice trembled. "And I'm not crazy. She's not your sister, Mark. I know about the rattle. I know about the photo."

"The photo that doesn't exist?" He started up the stairs, his movements slow and deliberate. "The rattle that commemorates a dead child?"

He reached the landing. He didn't touch me. He just gestured toward the bedroom door.

"Inside. Now."

I backed away. "I want my phone. I want to call my parents."

"Your parents are dead, Elara," he said softly. "Remember? They died five years ago."

The cruelty of it took my breath away. He knew. Of course he knew. He was using my grief, my isolation, against me.

"I want to call *someone*," I said. "Anyone."

"You lost your phone privileges when you started harassing delivery drivers."

He walked past me into the bedroom. I followed, not because I wanted to, but because there was nowhere else to go. The hallway felt exposed, dangerous.

Inside the room, the air was stale. Mark walked to the nightstand and picked up the iPad I had hidden under the pillow.

"Clever," he said, turning it over in his hands. "Jasmine mentioned a note in the app. I assumed you used this."

He tapped the screen. It didn't light up. The battery was dead.

"I'm taking this," he said. "And the TV remote. And the landline."

He unplugged the phone from the wall jack. He put the remote in his pocket.

"You need a reset," he said. "No screens. No stimulation. Just rest."

"You're isolating me," I whispered. "That's what abusers do. They isolate their victims."

"I'm protecting you," he corrected. "From yourself. From these... delusions."

He walked to the door. Chloe was waiting in the hallway, her arms crossed. She looked at me with a mixture of pity and triumph.

"We had to let the night nurse go," Mark said, pausing in the doorway. "She was expensive, and frankly, she wasn't doing a good job. You were waking up too much."

My stomach dropped. The night nurse was the only other person who came into this house. The only other witness.

"You fired her?"

"We let her go," he repeated. "To save money. The hospital bills are piling up, Elara. And now, with this... situation... we need to be careful."

He looked at Chloe.

"Chloe offered to take the night shift. She'll be staying in the nursery with Lily. You won't be disturbed at all."

"No," I said, panic rising in my throat. "No, she can't. She's not... she's not safe."

"She's my sister," Mark said, his voice hard. "And she's the only one helping us right now."

He stepped out of the room. Chloe followed him.

"Sleep well, Elara," she said.

The door closed. The lock clicked.

I stood in the center of the silent room, the water carafe still heavy in my hand. I was alone. No phone. No internet. No night nurse. No way out.

And tonight, for the first time, my daughter would be alone with her too.

I walked to the wall and pressed my ear against the plaster. I could hear them moving in the nursery next door. The creak of the floorboards. The soft murmur of voices.

"She's fighting it," Mark said. His voice was muffled, but audible.

"She'll break," Chloe replied. "They always do."

"We need to be careful. The delivery girl... she saw her."

"I handled it. She thinks Elara is off her meds. Which she is."

"We need to speed it up," Mark said. "Before she does something stupid."

"Friday," Chloe said. "Friday is the transfer. We stick to the plan."

I slid down the wall until I hit the floor. Friday.

Today was Wednesday.

I had forty-eight hours.