Chapter 25: The Waiting Game

The roll of duct tape hit the nightstand with a heavy, muted *thud*.

"It's just a precaution," Mark said, his voice strained. He wouldn't look at me. He was focused on the screwdriver in his hand, testing the weight of it. "The drafts in this house are terrible. We're losing heat."

"Stop it," I whispered. "Just stop lying."

Chloe stepped forward, blocking my view of him. She picked up the tape.

"We need to seal the room, Elara. To keep the... air quality stable. For your recovery."

She ripped a strip of tape free. The sound was a harsh, tearing screech that made me flinch.

"I called the police," I said. It was a bluff, a desperate gamble. The call had failed. I knew it, and deep down, they probably knew it too. But I had to try.

Mark's head snapped up. "What?"

"I called 911. Before you came in. They're on their way."

For a second, fear flickered in his eyes. He looked at Chloe, panic rising.

"Check the log," Chloe said calmly. She didn't even pause in her work, smoothing the tape over the vent cover. "The jammer has been on since yesterday. No signal out, no signal in."

Mark exhaled, his shoulders slumping. He looked at me with a mix of pity and frustration.

"Why do you do this?" he asked. "Why do you make it so hard?"

"Because you stole my baby!" I screamed, lunging at him.

I didn't reach him. Chloe moved faster than I thought possible. She caught my wrist, twisting it behind my back until I gasped in pain.

"Sit down," she hissed.

She shoved me back onto the bed. Mark flinched but didn't intervene. He turned away, focusing on the vent, screwing the metal cover down tight.

"You're hurting me," I sobbed, clutching my wrist.

"I'm restraining you," Chloe corrected. "There's a difference."

She walked to the window. Mark followed her, handing her the screwdriver. Together, they worked in silence, driving long screws into the sash, sealing the frame shut.

I watched them, a cold numbness spreading through my chest. This wasn't just containment. This was a tomb.

"Why don't you just kill me?" I asked. The words felt heavy, leaden in the air.

Mark stopped turning the screw. He rested his forehead against the glass.

"We don't want to hurt you, Elara," he said, his voice muffled. "We really don't. We just need... time."

"Time for what?"

"To get everything ready," Chloe said. She took the screwdriver from him. "For the transition."

"What transition?"

"The facility," Mark said, turning to face me. "We found a place. A specialized center for postpartum psychosis. They can help you."

"I'm not sick!"

"You tried to attack me," Chloe said. "You hallucinated photos. You think your dead sister-in-law is my ex-wife."

"She *is* your ex-wife!"

Mark shook his head. "See? This is why you need help."

He walked to the door. Chloe finished taping the last seal on the window. The room was airtight now. A vacuum.

"We'll be downstairs," Mark said. "Try to rest. We have a long drive tomorrow."

They left. The lock clicked.

I sat in the silence, the smell of adhesive lingering in the air.

They were going to commit me. They were going to lock me away in some facility, drugged and discredited, while they raised my daughter.

I looked at the pillow. The phone was still there, hidden in the case.

I pulled it out.

Zero bars.

I threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying *crack*, sliding down to the floor.

I needed a weapon. I needed a plan.

I looked at the vent they had just sealed. Duct tape and screws.

I looked at the window. Screws and paint.

I looked at the door. Solid wood. Deadbolt.

There was no way out.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The pattern in the plaster looked like a map. A map to nowhere.

My eyes drifted to the nightstand. To the book I had grabbed earlier.

It was a copy of *What to Expect the First Year*. Mark had bought it for me.

I picked it up. It was heavy. Hardcover.

I opened it, flipping through the pages. Feeding schedules. Sleep training. Milestones.

And there, tucked between pages 142 and 143, was something thin and white.

A business card.

*Dr. Aris Thorne. Concierge Medicine.*

But it wasn't the card that caught my eye. It was what was written on the back.

In blue ink. In handwriting I recognized.

*She suspects. Increase dosage. Friday is the deadline.*

It wasn't Mark's handwriting.

It was mine.