Chapter 2: Ten Days Missing
The ambulance doors shut behind me, cutting my mother out of sight.
For the first time since I'd opened my front door, I could breathe.
Barely.
The air inside the ambulance smelled like disinfectant and plastic. Machines beeped in steady rhythms around us as the paramedics worked over Hannah and Noah.
I sat beside the stretcher, gripping Hannah's hand.
Her fingers were cold.
Too cold.
"Stay with me," I whispered.
Her eyes were half closed.
"I'm here.""
She nodded weakly.
Across from us, another paramedic held Noah against his chest while checking the baby's oxygen level.
Our son had stopped screaming.
That scared me more than the crying had.
A quiet newborn was one thing.
A newborn who had been screaming because he couldn't breathe and suddenly became silent was something else entirely.
"Come on, buddy," I whispered.
The paramedic looked at the monitor.
"His levels are improving.""
I exhaled.
Hannah squeezed my hand.
Then the ambulance accelerated.
The siren wailed overhead.
I looked down at my phone.
The security app was still open.
The paused image of my mother stood frozen on the screen.
One hand wrapped around Hannah's medication bottle.
The other resting casually at her side.
She looked calm.
Almost bored.
I zoomed in.
There was something about the image that made my skin crawl.
My mother had always been careful.
She noticed everything.
A crooked picture frame.
A dirty dish left in the sink.
A wrinkle in the curtains.
A package delivered to the wrong house.
She noticed everything.
Which meant she knew exactly where that camera was.
And yet she had looked straight at it.
Had she known I would eventually see the recordings?
Or had she simply stopped caring?
"Sir?""
I looked up.
The paramedic was watching me.
"Yeah?""
"You're Daniel?""
"Yes.""
"Your wife is responding to treatment, but the hospital will need to know everything that happened before you arrived.""
I nodded.
"I'll tell them.""
"Was there anyone else in the house?""
"My mother.""
"Did she provide any treatment?""
I hesitated.
"She said she was helping.""
"That wasn't my question.""
I looked at Hannah.
Then back at him.
"No.""
He nodded slowly.
"Tell the doctors about the equipment being disconnected. And the medication.""
"I will.""
His expression didn't change, but I saw something in his eyes.
Concern.
Not just for Hannah.
For Noah.
For both of them.
The ambulance swerved around a car.
I tightened my grip on the rail beside the stretcher.
My phone buzzed.
A text.
From Mom.
I stared at the screen.
*Diane: We need to talk before you make any accusations.*
My stomach twisted.
I didn't answer.
Another message appeared.
*Diane: Hannah has always disliked me. Don't let her turn you against your own mother.*
I locked the phone.
Then it buzzed again.
*Diane: I did what I thought was necessary.*
Necessary.
I read that word over and over.
What kind of mother watched her daughter-in-law struggle for air and called it necessary?
I wanted to smash the phone.
Instead, I opened the security footage again.
The paramedic noticed.
"Is that the camera recording?""
"Yes.""
"Keep it.""
"I am.""
"Don't delete anything.""
I looked at him.
"Why?""
"So nobody can say you altered it.""
The sentence landed harder than it should have.
I hadn't even considered that.
I saved the footage to my phone.
Then to the cloud.
Then I emailed myself a copy.
I wasn't taking chances.
The ambulance arrived at the hospital.
Everything happened at once.
Doors opened.
People rushed in.
Hannah disappeared through the emergency department while another team took Noah in a separate direction.
I followed until a nurse stopped me.
"You need to stay here.""
"That's my wife.""
"I know.""
"My baby is over there.""
"I know.""
"Can I see them?""
"Not yet.""
She placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Let the doctors work.""
I stepped back.
Then the doors closed.
Just like that, I was alone.
I sat down in a plastic chair beneath fluorescent lights.
My clothes still smelled faintly like airplane air.
I hadn't showered.
Hadn't eaten.
Hadn't even processed that I was back in Seattle.
I had been home for less than thirty minutes.
And somehow my entire life had become unrecognizable.
I opened the security recordings.
I started from the beginning.
Day one.
The first few hours were ordinary.
Mom arrived carrying two grocery bags.
She kissed Hannah's forehead.
She held Noah.
She cleaned the kitchen.
Nothing unusual.
I almost felt stupid.
Then, at 10:47 p.m., she entered the nursery.
She stood over Noah's crib.
She didn't touch him.
She just watched.
For nearly five minutes.
I frowned.
Then she left.
At 1:14 a.m., she returned.
This time she carried something.
A small glass of water.
She placed it on the dresser.
Then she walked away.
I paused.
Why water?
I went to the next recording.
Day two.
At 11:32 p.m., she entered again.
She leaned over the crib.
Then glanced toward the camera.
I watched her lips move.
There was no audio.
But she appeared to say something.
I rewound it.
Again.
Again.
I couldn't make out the words.
I opened the audio settings.
There was no sound.
The nursery camera had never recorded audio.
I continued.
Day three.
Around midnight, Mom entered the bedroom.
She stood beside Hannah.
She bent toward her.
Hannah didn't wake up.
Mom reached down.
I zoomed in.
Her hand moved toward Hannah's medication.
Then the recording ended.
The next clip started five minutes later.
Mom returned.
She put the bottle back.
I stared at the screen.
My chest tightened.
This wasn't an accident.
It was a pattern.
Every night, she waited until Hannah was asleep.
Every night, she did something.
By day four, I stopped watching casually.
I started writing down timestamps.
12:03 a.m.
1:17 a.m.
2:06 a.m.
12:48 a.m.
1:31 a.m.
The times changed, but the behavior didn't.
Mom went into the bedroom.
Mom entered the nursery.
Mom handled the medication.
Mom unplugged things.
Sometimes she stood in the doorway for minutes.
Sometimes she leaned over Noah's crib.
Sometimes she appeared to check the windows.
I reached day six.
That's when I saw something different.
Mom entered the nursery carrying a grocery bag.
She pulled something from it.
A baby bottle.
I stared.
Noah was breastfed, with formula used only occasionally under our pediatrician's guidance.
Mom put the bottle into the refrigerator.
Then she looked around.
She took another bottle from the refrigerator.
She opened it.
She poured something into it.
I leaned closer.
I couldn't tell what it was.
My heartbeat accelerated.
I watched her swirl the bottle.
Then she put it back.
I immediately made a copy of the video.
I didn't know what she had added.
I only knew that she hadn't asked Hannah.
I continued.
Day seven.
That was when I saw the first argument.
The camera was in the nursery, but the bedroom door was partially open.
Hannah appeared in the doorway.
She was holding Noah.
Even without audio, I could see she was upset.
Mom stood in front of her.
Hannah gestured toward the hallway.
Mom shook her head.
Hannah pointed toward the medical device.
Mom crossed her arms.
Then Hannah began crying.
Mom walked away.
I stopped the video.
I closed my eyes.
A nurse walked by and glanced at me.
"Are you okay?""
I opened my eyes.
"No.""
She gave me the kind of look people give strangers in hospitals.
Gentle.
Careful.
"Your family?""
"My wife and baby.""
She nodded.
"I hope they're both okay.""
"So do I.""
She walked away.
I opened the video again.
Day eight.
At 2:13 a.m., Mom entered the bedroom.
She unplugged the medical device.
Then something caught my attention.
She didn't just unplug it.
She rolled the cord into a neat loop.
She put the plug behind a dresser.
That detail made my blood run cold.
She wanted it hidden.
She wanted Hannah to think she had done something wrong.
I watched another clip.
Day nine.
Mom entered carrying a small trash bag.
She walked into the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, she came out.
The bag looked heavier.
I checked the timestamp.
Then I remembered something.
Our bathroom had a second camera.
Not inside.
In the hallway.
The camera couldn't see into the bathroom, but it could see who entered and exited.
I opened that recording.
Mom had entered carrying one bottle.
She came out carrying none.
My mind raced.
I searched the house mentally.
What bottles had been in the bathroom?
Cleaning products?
Supplements?
Medications?
I couldn't remember.
Then I remembered Hannah telling me, before my trip, that her doctor had changed one of her prescriptions.
She'd said something like, "I have to keep track because the bottles look almost identical.""
I had laughed.
"You want me to label them?""
She had smiled.
"You'd probably put the wrong labels on.""
I had kissed her.
Now I felt sick.
I went back to the bedroom footage.
Day nine.
11:52 p.m.
Mom entered.
She opened the medication drawer.
She took out several bottles.
One at a time.
She read each label.
Then she chose one.
My throat tightened.
I watched her remove pills.
She counted them.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Then she placed the bottle back.
I copied that recording too.
And then I reached day ten.
The day I came home.
The day everything exploded.
There were hours of footage before I opened the door.
I watched Mom move through the house.
She made breakfast.
She checked on Noah.
She brought Hannah water.
For a moment, I wondered whether I'd misunderstood everything.
Then, at 9:18 a.m., she entered the bedroom.
Hannah was asleep.
Mom stood beside her.
She looked toward the door.
Then toward the camera.
She walked to the medical device.
And unplugged it.
She didn't hesitate.
At 9:24, Hannah woke.
She sat up.
She reached toward the device.
It wasn't working.
Mom pointed toward it.
Even without sound, I could tell they were arguing.
Hannah pointed at the machine.
Mom shook her head.
Hannah grabbed her phone.
Mom took it away.
I froze.
She took Hannah's phone.
Why?
The recording ended.
The next one started.
Hannah was sitting on the floor.
Noah was crying.
Mom was standing over her.
And then I saw the exact moment Hannah began struggling to breathe.
She grabbed the mattress.
Mom did nothing.
She simply stood there.
I closed my eyes.
I couldn't watch anymore.
I couldn't.
My phone buzzed again.
Mom.
I ignored it.
Then the phone rang.
I rejected the call.
It rang again.
I rejected it.
A third time.
I answered.
"What?""
There was silence.
Then my mother's voice.
Calm.
Almost offended.
"You're being dramatic.""
I stood up.
"Where are you?""
"At the house.""
"Why didn't you leave?""
"Because someone needs to protect Noah.""
My hand tightened around the phone.
"Protect him from what?""
"From all of this nonsense.""
"Mom, what did you put in her medication?""
A pause.
"I didn't poison anyone.""
"I didn't say poison.""
"You implied it.""
"What did you put in the bottle?""
Another pause.
Then she said, "You don't understand what she was doing.""
"Then explain it.""
"She was taking too much.""
"The prescription?""
"She was taking more than prescribed.""
"Where's the proof?""
"She told me.""
"When?""
"Before you left.""
I closed my eyes.
"Hannah never told you to change her medication.""
"I didn't change anything.""
"I have video.""
"So do I.""
I opened my eyes.
"What?""
"My notes.""
"What notes?""
"Everything I observed.""
My voice dropped.
"Mom...""
"I'm your mother.""
"I know.""
"You don't know what it's like to watch a woman endanger a newborn.""
My heart stopped.
"Endanger Noah?""
"She was exhausted. She wasn't thinking clearly.""
"That's not what I asked.""
Silence.
Then she said something that made my skin crawl.
"If you'd stayed home, none of this would have happened.""
The call ended.
I stared at the screen.
She had hung up.
Before I could process it, a doctor came through the emergency department doors.
"Daniel?""
I stood immediately.
"Yes.""
"I'm Dr. Reeves.""
My heart pounded.
"How are they?""
He glanced at his tablet.
"Your wife is stable for the moment.""
I nearly collapsed.
"And Noah?""
"Your son is also stable.""
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
"But," the doctor continued, "we're still running tests.""
My relief disappeared.
"What's wrong?""
"We're trying to determine exactly why both your wife and infant showed respiratory symptoms.""
I swallowed.
"Could it be something in the house?""
"We don't know yet.""
He hesitated.
Then he asked, "Who had access to their medications?""
I stared at him.
"My mother.""
"And who had access to the medical equipment?""
"My mother.""
His expression became serious.
"Then I'd like you to preserve everything you have.""
"I have recordings.""
"Good.""
"I copied them.""
"Don't confront anyone yet.""
I looked toward the emergency room.
"Why?""
"Because once accusations start flying, people make mistakes.""
He looked directly at me.
"And sometimes they destroy evidence.""
My blood ran cold.
I thought about the recordings.
The medication.
The bottles.
The machine.
Then I thought about my mother's final words.
If you'd stayed home, none of this would have happened.
My phone buzzed.
Another message.
This time, it wasn't from Mom.
It was from an unknown number.
Only five words.
*You should check the basement.*
I stared at the screen.
My heart began pounding.
I looked at the hospital doors.
Then back at the message.
Who knew about the basement?
And why were they telling me now?
A second message appeared.
*Your mother forgot one thing.*
Then nothing.
I read the words again.
And suddenly the recordings I'd already seen no longer felt like the beginning of the nightmare.
They felt like the part someone wanted me to discover.
The part that was supposed to scare me.
Because whoever had sent those messages knew there was something else inside my house.
Something I hadn't seen yet.
And after what I'd just learned about my mother, I was no longer sure I wanted to know.
But my wife and son were still fighting for their lives in that hospital.
And I couldn't protect them from a distance.
So I stood up.
I looked at the emergency room doors one last time.
Then I walked toward the exit.
Toward the house I'd just fled.
May you like
Toward the basement.
And toward whatever my mother had been hiding for ten days.
