Chapter 33: The Video File

The door at the top of the stairs burst open, but it wasn't the door I expected.

It wasn't the basement door. It was the door to the garage.

A heavy *slam* echoed through the concrete space, followed by the grinding screech of the automatic opener.

Chloe swore, her head snapping toward the sound. "The delivery girl," she hissed. "She must have gone around back."

"Ignore her," Mark said, his eyes still fixed on the cremation order. "We need to deal with Elara."

"If she sees us down here with a gun..." Chloe started for the stairs, abandoning me. "I'll handle it. Keep her quiet."

She ran up the steps, her heels clicking like gunshots on the wood.

I looked at Mark. He was trembling. The gun in his hand wavered, the barrel dipping toward the floor.

"Mark," I whispered. "Look at the screen. Look at what she's done."

He didn't move. He looked like a statue made of salt, ready to crumble.

"She killed your sister," I said, my voice low and urgent. "And now she's going to kill me. Is that what you want? To be a widower twice over?"

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," he mumbled. "It was just supposed to be a fresh start."

"A fresh start built on a corpse?"

"Shut up!" he shouted, raising the gun again. But his eyes were wet. "Just shut up, Elara. You don't understand."

"I understand that you're scared," I said. "I understand that she has something on you. But this... this is murder, Mark. Premeditated murder."

From upstairs, I heard shouting. Chloe's voice, shrill and demanding. And then another voice. Calm. Authoritative.

"Ma'am, I need you to step back."

It wasn't Jasmine.

It was a man's voice. Deep. Resonant.

"Officer," Chloe said, her tone shifting instantly to one of confused concern. "Thank god you're here. My sister-in-law... she's having an episode. She locked herself in the basement."

"We received a 911 call from this address," the officer said. "A distress signal. Something about a baby."

Mark's head jerked up.

"The call," I whispered. "It went through."

"No," he breathed. "The jammer..."

"One bar," I said. "Just enough."

"Mark!" Chloe yelled from the top of the stairs. "Mark, bring Elara up! The officer wants to see her!"

Mark looked at me. He looked at the gun.

"If you bring me up there," I said, "I will tell him everything. I will tell him about Sarah. About Elena. About the baby."

"I can't let you do that," he said.

"Then shoot me," I challenged, stepping toward him. "Shoot me right now. Because if I walk up those stairs alive, it's over."

He stared at me, the conflict warring in his face. He looked at the monitor, where the cremation order still glowed in damning black and white.

"Mark?" Chloe called again, her voice laced with panic. "Mark!"

He lowered the gun.

"I can't," he whispered.

He turned and placed the gun on the workbench. He didn't look at me again. He walked to the stairs, his shoulders heavy.

"She's coming," he called up.

I grabbed the tablet. I didn't care that it was dead. It was evidence. I grabbed the printout of the drug interaction Brenda had given me.

I walked to the stairs. My legs felt like jelly, but I forced them to move.

I climbed up into the light.

Chloe was standing in the kitchen, blocking the view of the hallway. A police officer stood in the foyer, his hand resting on his belt.

"Elara!" Chloe cried, rushing toward me. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging in hard enough to draw blood. "Thank god you're okay. We were so worried."

She leaned close, her breath hot in my ear.

"Say one word," she whispered, "and Lily dies."

I froze.

The officer stepped forward. "Ma'am? Are you alright?"

I looked at him. I looked at Chloe's manic, desperate eyes. I looked at Mark, standing broken in the doorway to the basement.

And then I looked past them all.

To the kitchen counter.

Where the baby monitor sat. The one I had used earlier.

It was on. The green light was steady.

And from the speaker, clear as a bell, came the sound of a baby crying.

Not a newborn's cry. Not a hunger cry.

A cry of pain.

And then a voice. A woman's voice. But not Chloe's.

"Hush now," the voice crooned, distorted by static but unmistakably cruel. "Hush, or I'll give you something to really cry about."

It was coming from the guest room.

But Chloe was right here.

I looked at her. Her face went white.

"Who is that?" I asked, my voice ringing in the silence. "Who is in the guest room with my daughter?"