Chapter 3: The Locked Door

The door clicked shut, severing the view.

I lay in the dark, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The yellow pill was dissolving in my stomach, its chemical fingers already reaching for my brain, but the adrenaline was faster.

*Too low for a brother.*

I stared at the ceiling, trying to replay the last ten seconds. Had I imagined it? The drugs made shadows dance in the corners of the room. Maybe they made hands drift where they shouldn't.

But I knew Mark's hands. I knew their weight, their warmth, their intent. That wasn't a brotherly pat. That was a claim.

Downstairs, the TV murmured to life. The faint, canned laughter of a sitcom drifted up through the floorboards. They were settling in. Relaxing. The happy siblings keeping vigil over the broken wife.

I needed to see Lily.

The urge wasn't a thought; it was a physical pull, magnetic and undeniable. My arms felt empty, my chest aching with a phantom weight. I pushed the duvet aside. The cool air hit my sweat-damp skin, making me shiver.

"Okay," I whispered to the empty room. "Okay."

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The world tilted violently to the left. I gripped the mattress, waiting for the room to stop spinning. The pain in my abdomen flared, a sharp, tearing sensation that made me gasp, but I gritted my teeth.

*One foot. Then the other.*

I stood. My knees buckled, soft as wax, but I locked them. I was upright. I was moving.

I took a step. Then another. I wasn't walking; I was shuffling, my hand trailing along the wall for balance. The carpet felt miles thick. The distance to the door seemed to stretch with every breath.

*Just get to the hallway. Just check the nursery.*

I reached the door. I leaned my forehead against the cool wood, closing my eyes for a second to gather my strength. The silence from the other side was heavy. No footsteps. No voices. They were downstairs.

I reached for the handle.

My fingers wrapped around the brushed metal lever. I pushed down.

It didn't move.

I frowned, my drug-addled brain slow to process the resistance. I pushed harder, leaning my weight into it.

Solid. Immovable.

I rattled it then, panic spiking in my chest. "Mark?"

Silence.

"Chloe?"

The door didn't budge. It wasn't stuck. It wasn't jammed. It was locked. From the outside.

I stepped back, staring at the handle as if it had turned into a snake. Why would they lock me in? To keep me safe? To keep me from falling down the stairs?

*Or to keep me away?*

"Hey!" I banged on the door with the flat of my hand. The sound was dull, swallowed by the heavy wood. "Mark! The door is stuck!"

Nothing. Just the distant hum of the refrigerator and the faint blue light of the baby monitor on the dresser.

I rattled the handle again, violently this time, ignoring the pain tearing through my midsection. "Open the door! Mark!"

A soft click echoed from the other side. Not the latch opening. A sound like a shoe shifting on hardwood.

Someone was standing right there.

I froze, my hand still on the metal lever. I could feel the presence through the wood, a cold pressure against my palm.

"Mark?" I whispered.

"Do you need help, Elara?"

It wasn't Mark.

The voice was low, smooth, and terrified me more than the silence. It was Chloe. She wasn't downstairs watching TV. She was standing in the dark hallway, guarding my door.

"Why is it locked?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"You were sleepwalking again," she said through the wood. Her tone was patient, terrifyingly calm. "Dr. Thorne said it might happen with the new meds. We didn't want you to hurt yourself."

"I'm awake," I said. "I'm awake now. Open the door."

"Go back to bed, Elara," she said. "You sound hysterical. You don't want to wake the baby, do you?"

"I want to see my daughter."

"She's sleeping. You should be too."

I heard her footsteps then. Not walking away. Just shifting. Settling.

She wasn't leaving. She was staying right there. Listening. Waiting for the yellow pill to finish what it started.

I backed away from the door, clutching my stomach. The room felt smaller now. The walls were closer. The air was thinner.

I wasn't recovering. I was an inmate.