The Babysitter

A Psychological Thriller

TANISHA STEWART

The Babysitter: A Psychological Thriller

Copyright © 2025 Tanisha Stewart

All rights reserved.

The Babysitter: A Psychological Thriller is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to events, locations, or persons living or dead is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying form without written permission of the author, Tanisha Stewart.

Books may be purchased in quantity and for special sales by contacting the publisher, Tanisha Stewart, at tanishastewart.author@gmail.com.

First Edition

Published in the United States of America

by Tanisha Stewart

Table of Contents

Shout Outs

Trigger/Content Warning

Prologue

PART I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

PART II

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

PART III

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

PART IV

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Epilogue

Shout Outs

I have three special shout outs for this read:

The first is for author Toni Larue, one of the co-founders of the Black Women Who Read Thriller/Horror/Suspense Books group on Facebook.

Toni is not just a co-founder of the group; she is also one of my thriller besties! Toni was the inspiration behind the title of the Red Series. Check out her books – but don’t blame me if you get addicted :)

Secondly, I would like to thank author J.R. Mason for her continuous threats and valuable feedback as I crafted this story. Check out her books and get lost in the Stolen Pieces series. Trust me; you won’t regret it!

Lastly, but certainly not least, I would like to thank author Niomie Roland, whose keen eye helped me smooth out the rough edges of this story. If you are a fan of BWWM Romance, check her out – her pen is fire!

Trigger/Content Warning

This story contains some sensitive themes that may be unsettling for some readers. Topics include: trauma surrounding childbirth and fertility issues.

Readers, please be advised.

If these themes are a trigger for you, this story may not be the best fit for you as a reader. I do have plenty of other thrillers you may enjoy. Check out Should Have Thought Twice: A Psychological Thriller. It’s part of The Quiet Ones series – and the first book is FREE!

The Babysitter

Prologue

I stroke my baby bump, humming softly as Richard navigates the coastal highway. The sun sparkles off the water, making everything shimmer like a dream. Like the dream we're living.

"Sweet baby," I whisper. "Not too much longer until you meet your big sister Emma."

Richard's eyes flick toward me from the driver’s seat. That worried crease appears between his brows – the one I've been seeing more often lately.

"Caroline," he says carefully, "maybe when we get back, you should see Dr. Matthews."

I laugh, light and breezy, the way a happy mother should. "Why would I need a doctor, honey? Everything's perfect." I pat my belly for emphasis. He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but just turns back to the road, his shoulders rigid.

"I should check on Emma," I say, pulling out my phone. The security app loads instantly – there's our beautiful home, every angle covered. Such a blessing, really, this technology. I click through the cameras until I find the living room feed. All clear.

But that girl… Sariah. I knew we should have gone with someone else. There was something in her eyes during the interview, something too... searching. But Richard insisted we couldn't be too picky, not with our timeline.

The kitchen cam also shows empty. Dining room empty. The den -

My heart stops.

"No!"

Richard jerks to attention. "What is it?"

I can't tear my eyes from the screen, from what Sariah is doing. My hands start to shake. She’s… She’s in the den… It looks like she’s…

"Caroline?" Richard's voice turns sharp with fear. "Tell me."

"We need to get home," I whisper. Then louder, my eyes widening as I clutch the phone until the pressure makes me think it’s about to crack beneath my fingers: "We need to get home, now!"

PART I

Chapter 1

Sariah

I pull up to the house, taking a deep breath and staring at it for a long time before emerging from my vehicle. It’s huge, but I expected nothing less when it came to a couple like the Rodwell’s. They are paying five grand for this babysitting job, so it only makes sense that they would have a huge, sprawling house to match what they offered for the position.

I stand by my car for a few moments, teetering with indecision before resolving that I must go in. I need this job, more than anyone could ever imagine.

As I travel up the driveway, I take in the two other cars parked side by side. I parked behind the brand-new Mercedes, as instructed. The house is a sight to behold - pristine landscaping, wraparound porch, classic colonial architecture.

When I get to the front door, I barely have a chance to knock before Mrs. Rodwell answers, wearing a flowing sundress, dancing from foot to foot like an excited child. It’s strange seeing her act this way since she looks to be in her late forties, judging from the grays in her roots.

"You must be Sariah!" She grabs my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "Come in, come in! Richard, she's here!"

I wait with bated breath for her husband to make his appearance.

Mr. Rodwell emerges from another room, all quiet dignity to balance his wife's enthusiasm. He gives me a practiced smile and a firm handshake. "Welcome. We're glad you could start on such short notice."

I force myself to maintain eye contact, to keep my smile steady. This job has to work out. It has to.

"Let me show you everything!" Mrs. Rodwell loops her arm through mine, fanning her face with her other hand as if she’s experiencing a hot flash. "Ugh! Richard, can you crank up the AC? It’s sweltering in here!" She laughs, a sound that's almost too bright.

The tour winds through immaculate rooms. Mrs. Rodwell chatters continuously about the baby, about their seven-year-old Emma, about the nursery they're preparing upstairs. Mr. Rodwell follows quietly, occasionally touching his wife's elbow when she gets too animated.

"And this–" Mrs. Rodwell's voice shifts, becoming suddenly serious as we stop at a heavy metal door in the den. "This is absolutely off-limits." She punches in a code on a keypad that looks more suited to a bank vault than a suburban home. "The basement's under renovation. We have lots of dangerous equipment down there, along with exposed wiring. We keep it locked for Emma's safety."

I nod, trying not to stare at the industrial-grade hinges, the reinforced frame. It seems excessive for a renovation, especially for a damn basement, but I need this job too badly to ask questions.

"Caroline," Mr. Rodwell says softly, "why don't you show Sariah Emma's favorite reading spot?"

Just like that, Mrs. Rodwell's brightness returns. "Oh yes! You'll love this!" She practically skips toward the sunroom, her hand returning to her belly. "The baby loves this room too. All that natural light!"

I follow, feeling Mr. Rodwell's eyes on my back. Something about this house, about them, feels off – like a picture hanging slightly crooked. But I push the thought away. I don’t want to read into things and end up getting fired before I start my first day.

Mrs. Rodwell's voice takes on a sing-song quality as she recites Emma's schedule. "She's allergic to peanuts and strawberries – we keep an EpiPen in the kitchen drawer by the sink. Bedtime is eight sharp, but she'll try to negotiate for eight-thirty. Don't let those big brown eyes fool you."

"What about school?" I ask. "Or summer camp?"

Something flashes behind Mrs. Rodwell's eyes – quick, like lightning. "Emma's camp doesn't start until we get back." The words come out clipped, but then that too-bright smile returns. "Besides, this babymoon is perfectly timed."

"Babymoon?" I keep my voice carefully curious. "I noticed that term in the job listing, but I'm not familiar with it."

Mrs. Rodwell's entire face lights up. "Oh! It's like a honeymoon, but before the baby comes. One last romantic getaway before we're up all night with this little one." She stops short for a second, wincing as if she’s in pain.

I open my mouth to ask if she’s okay, but she continues. "Just Richard and me, white sand beaches, room service..."

I nod, trying to look interested while bitter acid rises in my throat. A luxury vacation to celebrate an upcoming birth. The irony makes my chest ache. I swallow hard, forcing my features to stay pleasant.

The tour loops back to the foyer where Emma sits on the floor reading, her finger tracing the words as she silently sounds them out.

"Caroline." Mr. Rodwell checks his watch. "We should get going if we want to beat traffic." Then he looks at his daughter. “Emma, why don’t you go read in the sunroom?”

Emma looks up from her book, a glint of irritation crossing her features before she wordlessly closes the book.

Mrs. Rodwell bends – awkwardly around her belly – to kiss Emma's forehead. "Be good for Sariah, sweet girl. Mommy and Daddy will call tonight."

Emma stands and hugs her father, then her mother before retreating to the sunroom.

The Rodwells give me awkward smiles then they are on their way.

I stand in the doorway, waving as their car disappears down the tree-lined street. The moment they're out of sight, my smile vanishes. I pull out my phone, fingers steady as I send a quick text to my boyfriend, Brandon:

"I'm in."

Chapter 2

Caroline

I watch our house grow smaller in the side mirror, my heart constricting with each foot of distance. Emma's face before we left – was that fear I saw? No, impossible. Emma's never afraid. We've made sure of that.

"Are you sure we've thought of everything?" The words tumble out before I can stop them. Again.

Richard's sigh is heavy with patience worn thin. "Yes, honey. We did. Emma's going to be fine."

"But what if–"

"Caroline." His tone carries a warning. The same warning I've been hearing more lately. "Everything is secure. The codes are changed. The cameras are working. Emma knows the rules." His grip on the steering wheel tightens.

I twist in my seat, straining for one last glimpse of our home, but it's already disappeared around the bend. My hand moves automatically to my belly – a gesture that's become second nature over the last several months.

"I know you're right," I say, more to convince myself than him. "It's just... we've never left her this long."

Richard's face softens slightly. "That's why we hired the babysitter. Everything will be fine."

I nod, settling back into my seat. He's right, of course. Our entire week has been planned, every detail considered. Still, I can't shake this feeling – we overlooked something, and Emma won’t be safe.

But that's ridiculous. It’s just mommy brain, always worried about her children. I deserve a little time away, just me and Richard. I don’t have to feel guilty for getting away for a moment. Especially with our new bundle on the way. Another child means more responsibility. Less time for just me and Richard. Yes, this must be done.

I close my eyes and picture the white sand beaches waiting for us. Seven days of peace. Seven days of just being Richard and Caroline, expecting parents on their babymoon.

I notice Richard's unusual silence. Something's bothering him; I can always tell.

"What's wrong with you?" I ask.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. "Nothing."

"Richard, it's not nothing. What's wrong?"

The silence stretches between us. Finally: "Have you been taking your medication?"

Ice floods my veins. "Why are you asking me that?" Heat creeps up my neck, anger building. No. I need to stay calm. It's not good for the baby.

"Nothing," Richard says. "Forget it."

"No, Richard. Say what you want to say." My voice rises despite my efforts. "You need to get it out now. We don't need any drama in our lives with Richie on the way." Suddenly, the car feels too hot. I reach out and crank up the AC, instantly alleviated by the blast of cold air. Feeling a flutter in my belly, I coo in delight. "You're going to look just like your daddy, aren't you, honey?" I speak in my baby-voice, so Richie Junior knows I’m talking to him. "Our first boy. Our little miracle."

When I look up, Richard's expression is unreadable.

"What is it now?" I demand.

Richard's hands flex again on the steering wheel. "This is our last one, Caroline."

The words hang in the air between us. My smile freezes.

"I'm serious," he continues. "No more babies after this."

"Why are you always trying to put a damper on my excitement?" My voice trembles. "What, are you not happy about our child? I thought you wanted a son."

Richard's jaw tightens. "I do want a son, Caroline, it's just..." His words fade into silence.

"It's just what?" I snap.

He chooses his next words with painful precision. "I need you to start taking your medication."

The tension in the car becomes suffocating. Something dark and familiar unfurls in my chest.

"Fuck that medication!" The rage floods through me, hot and electric. I twist in my seat to face him. "What is this really about? You've been acting distant lately, and it's got nothing to do with me and this damn medication. What is it really, Richard? Are you stepping out on me? Are you tired of our family?"

"No baby, it's nothing like that." His voice softens immediately, placating. "It's... Never mind. You're right. You don't need the medication."

My body relaxes as his words wash over me. He reaches over to squeeze my hand, murmuring more reassurances.

But when he focuses back fully on the road, I can’t help myself. I turn toward the window as my lips curve into an involuntary smile.

Chapter 3

Sariah

My fingers tremble as I wait for Brandon’s response. My mind is still catching up to the fact that I actually got the job, that they hired me out of all the candidates, and that they are gone and I am alone in the house with their daughter. The dots dance as Brandon crafts his reply. I exhale when it comes in. "Okay. Be careful, baby, and let me know what happens every step of the way. I mean it."

I tense at those words. The argument from last night echoes in my head – Brandon pacing our small apartment, telling me I was being reckless, that there had to be another way. But he doesn't understand. He can't understand.

Tears blur my vision for a moment before I blink them away, sending back a quick "Okay," before sliding the phone into the back pocket of my jeans and heading to the sunroom to face Emma, who is still sitting reading her book.

"Are you hungry, honey?"

She looks up, and something in my chest tightens at her shy smile. She nods.

"What would you like to eat?"

"A sandwich, please." Her voice is soft, almost musical.

My heart warms despite everything. Such a polite little girl. Such innocent eyes.

Tears threaten to blur my vision once again, but I blink them away.

"Coming right up," I say, heading toward the kitchen. "Would you like to help me make it?"

She nods again, carefully marking her place in the book before following me. Her sock-covered feet make no sound on the hardwood floors.

I prepare Emma's turkey and cheese sandwich, carefully cutting away the crusts like Mom used to do for me. The memory catches me off guard – I haven't thought about those after-school snacks in years. I push the thought away and pour a glass of milk, setting both in front of Emma.

"Thank you," she says, that shy smile returning.

We chat while we eat. She tells me about her favorite book series, her eyes lighting up as she describes the characters. There's something endearing about the way she gestures with her small hands, becoming more animated as she grows comfortable with me.

After lunch, I rinse our plates and load them into their state-of-the-art dishwasher, making a mental note to run it after dinner. "What would you like to do now? We could play outside, or you could finish your book?"

Emma's face brightens. "Can we watch TV together?"

I can't help but giggle as she grabs my hand, tugging me toward the living room. Her enthusiasm is infectious. We're halfway down the hallway when I hear it.

Laughter.

It's faint, barely there, but it stops me cold. A child's laugh – but not Emma's. It seemed to come from... everywhere and nowhere at once.

Emma turns around, her hand still in mine. "Why'd you stop?"

"Did you hear that?" I ask, scanning the empty hallway.

Something flickers across Emma's face – nervousness? Fear? "Hear what?"

I strain my ears, but the house is silent now. Maybe it was just the settling of an old house, my mind playing tricks on me. Why would I hear a child laughing? There's only Emma here.

"Never mind," I say, forcing a smile. "Let's watch TV!"

Emma's brightness returns as we continue to the living room, but something nags at the back of my mind. That laugh... It sounded so real.

I shake it off. I'm here for a reason. I can't let myself get distracted by imaginary sounds.

But as Emma settles onto the couch beside me, I can't help glancing back toward the hallway one last time.

Chapter 4

Caroline

The hotel room is beautiful – ocean view, king-sized bed, all the luxuries Richard promised. But I can't stop checking my phone. The security footage shows Emma and Sariah on the couch, both of them bathed in the television's blue glow. My chest aches. I should be the one sitting there with her, stroking her hair, sharing those quiet moments.

Richard's watching me as he wheels our suitcases in. "What are you looking at?"

I quickly close the app, plastering on a smile as I turn to face him. "Nothing. What do you say we get something to eat? I think Richie is hungry." Right on cue, my stomach flutters and growls. A laugh bubbles up. "See? I know my baby boy!"

Richard's face does that thing again – that slight tightening around the eyes that I've been seeing more often lately. But he doesn't say anything about the medication this time. Smart man.

"Room service?" he suggests. "We could eat on the balcony, watch the sunset."

I shake my head. “Let’s go downstairs instead. I heard their restaurant is to die for.”

Richard nods and wheels our suitcases to the closet, but my thoughts drift back to Emma. Is Sariah making sure she's not sitting too close to the TV? Does she know Emma needs a light on if the room gets too dark? Does she–

"Caroline?"

I blink, finding Richard closer now, his hand on my shoulder. "Sorry, just thinking about what to order." The lie comes easily. They always do. "Maybe the salmon? Richie needs his omega-3s."

Richard's hand drops away. "Whatever you want, honey."

I move to the balcony, letting the sea breeze settle me. One hour. We're only one hour from home. Close enough if anything happens. Close enough to keep watch.

I breathe deeply like they taught me in therapy. Everything will be fine. Everything has to be fine.

The hotel restaurant buzzes with late afternoon energy. When our waitress gushes over my pregnancy glow, I beam, soaking in the validation. Richard's smile is genuine too, and something tight in my chest loosens. This is how it should be – two parents, excited about their baby.

Over grilled salmon and sparkling water, I tell him about the hand-painted mobile I ordered for the nursery. His eyes light up as I describe the delicate woodland creatures dangling from silver chains. "That'll be perfect," he says, and mentions that he’s got a delivery of his own coming for the nursery too.

Back in our room, watching Richard's enthusiasm has stirred something in me. After my shower, I let him take his turn in the bathroom. When he emerges in his pajama pants, plopping onto the bed and reaching for the TV remote, I move to straddle his hips.

"What are you doing?" The question comes out husky, his eyes darkening.

I trace a finger down his chest. "Might as well have a little fun before the real excitement begins."

His lips find mine, and soon we're lost in each other. It's passionate, tender – everything it should be between two people in love. When we finish, I'm exhausted but content, my head resting on his chest.

This is what I've always wanted. Richard is everything I ever dreamed of as far as a man, and soon, our perfect baby boy will be here. Our family will finally be complete.

But something niggles at the back of my mind, a whisper of doubt I can't quite silence. What if something goes wrong? What if–

No. I won't let myself think that way. Everything will go according to plan. It has to.

Chapter 5

Sariah

Emma is incredible – bright, articulate, and so well-mannered. We spend the evening together, and I find myself genuinely enjoying her company as she chatters about her upcoming camp adventures. Her excitement is contagious, and part of me wishes I was a kid again so I could go to summer camp too.

At 8:30, right on schedule, her eyes start to droop. I guide her upstairs for bedtime, and she falls asleep almost immediately, dark braids splayed across her pillow.

The guest room is nicer than any bedroom I've ever had. King-sized bed, en-suite bathroom, designer everything. That familiar bitterness rises in my throat as I take it all in. Some people really do have it all, don't they?

My phone buzzes. Brandon.

"Hey. How are things?"

"So far, so good," I type back.

"How's the kid?"

"She's good."

My thumbs hover over the keypad. Should I mention the laugh I heard in the hallway? I stare at our text thread, remembering our last fight. "You're not thinking clearly," he had said. "This obsession isn't healthy."

I delete what I was about to type. He already thinks I'm crazy. No need to give him more ammunition.

The house settles around me with unfamiliar creaks and groans. I try not to think about that phantom laugh, try not to wonder what else I might hear in the night.

Seven days. I just need to keep it together for seven days.

I send Brandon one last text – "Going to bed now" – and turn off my phone.

I settle into the luxurious guest room, still trying to push away thoughts of Brandon's concern. Maybe turning off my phone was dramatic, but I can't deal with his doubts right now. I need to focus.

The ensuite bathroom is nicer than any hotel I've stayed in. I take my time in the shower, letting the hot water ease some of my tension.

Changed into my pajamas, I climb into the impossibly soft bed and use the remote to turn on the flatscreen mounted on the wall. Even their guest room has better amenities than my entire apartment.

Two hours of mindless TV later, my eyelids grow heavy. I return the remote to the nightstand and switch off the light, letting myself drift into sleep.

The next thing I know, a sound jolts me awake. My heart pounds as I sit up in the darkness.

"Emma?" I call out, but there's no response.

I strain my ears, waiting. Just as I'm about to convince myself I imagined it, I hear another sound. Something between a shuffle and a whisper.

I spring out of bed. "Emma?"

Still no answer. My bare feet carry me to her room, where my blood turns to ice.

Her bed is empty.

"Emma?" My voice sounds too loud in the quiet house. Nothing answers except the soft hum of the air conditioning. Emma’s bedsheets are rumpled, her stuffed purple elephant lying abandoned on the floor. My pulse quickens as I flick on the light switch. The room floods with brightness, but no Emma.

I strain my ears, heart thudding against my ribs. The digital clock on her nightstand reads 2:17 AM. Everything feels wrong, like the darkness has teeth.

"Emma?" My voice cracks. "Where are you, Sweetie?"

Nervousness floods my body as I descend the stairs. "Emma?" My whispered call echoes through the darkness.

Three steps from the bottom, a creak pierces the silence. I freeze, my hand gripping the banister. The sound seems to come from somewhere ahead of me, toward the kitchen.

My mind races. Should I call the police? No – what would I tell them? That I lost my charge on the first night? That I'm hearing strange sounds in a strange house?

I force myself to keep moving, following the source of the noise. My breath catches when I spot Emma's small figure in the kitchen, illuminated by moonlight streaming through the windows.

But something's wrong. She's standing completely still – unnaturally still. Her nightgown hangs motionless around her legs, her dark braids a shadow against her shoulders.

"Emma?" My voice comes out barely above a whisper.

She doesn't respond. Doesn't even twitch.

Fighting back my rising panic, I edge closer. Emma remains frozen, as if carved from stone.

Then she turns, and my heart nearly stops. Her eyes are open but vacant, staring through me rather than at me. Her face is slack, expressionless.

At first, I’m ready to freak out, thinking the child is possessed by a demon, but then it hits me: She's sleepwalking.

Relief mingles with a new kind of fear. I've heard you're not supposed to wake sleepwalkers, but I can't remember why. What am I supposed to do with her like this?

Emma's scream shatters the silence, making me jump out of my skin. I rush to her without thinking, my instincts overriding everything I know about sleepwalkers.

Just as I reach her, her eyes snap into focus. She blinks at me, confused. "Sariah?"

My heart's still racing, but I force my voice to stay steady. "Are you okay honey?"

She nods slowly, looking around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. "I think so. I had a bad dream. But why are we in the kitchen?"

I swallow hard, considering my words. "I think you were sleepwalking."

"Again?" The resignation in her voice makes something in me unclench. This is normal for her. Just a little girl who sleepwalks sometimes.

"It's nothing to worry about," I soothe, guiding her back upstairs. "Lots of people sleepwalk. Let's get you back to bed."

She lets me tuck her in, already half-asleep again. I make sure her stuffed elephant is secure in her arms before heading back to my room.

But as I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, that earlier unease creeps back. The way she stood so still in the kitchen. That vacant stare. The scream that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than a nightmare.

Something about this house feels... wrong. Like it's holding its breath, waiting.

Chapter 6

Sariah

The next morning I prepare a breakfast of French toast and fresh fruit - something Caroline texted me about. “It’s one of Emma’s favorites,” she gushed in her voice clip. How did that woman have so much energy at five o’clock in the morning?

When I first saw the message, I thought she was about to tell me there was an issue and that she and Richard were coming home. My heart thumped in my chest. But as I listened to her message, I felt a lot better. She was just thinking about her daughter.

A tinge of sadness rises within me as my mind travels to Caroline’s bubbly tone in the voice clip, but I force it down like always. I’m here for a reason. I will not leave this house until I find what I need.

As I’m having that thought, Brandon’s warning echoes in my mind. The one about me being too obsessive. The one where he said I might need therapy.

Therapy won’t help me.

Nothing will, not until I find what I need.

The scent of nearly burning sausages alerts me back to focus at the same time that Emma steps into the kitchen.

Her eyes widen as she takes in the sights before her. “You’re making French toast?”

The smile she gives me was worth listening to Caroline’s five-minute voice clip giving detailed instructions on how to put two pieces of bread into a damn pan.

I almost roll my eyes at the memory, smiling at Emma instead.

“Sure am, baby girl! And yours is almost done!”

She looks almost giddy as she climbs up on top of one of the stools that is next to the bar-type counter.

Because of course the Rodwells have stools as well as a table and chairs in the kitchen, then another table with fine china in the den.

My stomach turns at the thought of them living in luxury while I’ve been suffering, but I push it away. Maybe Brandon was right. Maybe therapy would be good, but I…

I’m doing it again. Drifting off, like I’ve been doing a lot lately.

I quickly fix Emma’s plate first, then hurry to finish making my French toast so we can eat together. Emma chats a mile a minute while we eat, and I mostly pay attention to what she’s saying, nodding and smiling in all the right places, and even responding on autopilot.

But the ticking time clock looms in the back of my mind. I’m only here for seven days, and I’ve already wasted one. Only six more days to find what I need.

Emma and I finish breakfast around the same time.

“Ready for a bath so you can officially start your day?” I say it with a cheery smile, hoping the girl will agree so I can have a few moments alone.

“Sure!” Emma says brightly, and she hurries upstairs to grab some clothes then go to the bathroom. Caroline assured me in her second two-minute voice clip that Emma is mostly self-sufficient, so she won’t need help with things like baths or picking out clothes.

“Just ensure that she doesn’t work with knives,” Caroline said, her voice etched with worry. “I let her use the kiddie ones, but we haven’t graduated her to real ones yet.”

I do roll my eyes as I think of that message. I understand I’m only twenty four and there’s a huge age gap between myself and the Rodwell’s, but I’m not a moron. Why hire me if you thought I’d let your seven year old daughter play with knives?

The sound of running water upstairs jerks me into action. I’m immediately on the hunt; for what exactly, I’m not sure. But I need to find something. Anything to make taking this job worth it.

I begin with the downstairs closets. Moving quickly but methodically, I start with the ones in the hallway, but there’s nothing there to take note of.

Just coats and shoes in the first one, as would be expected since it’s near the front door, then the second one contains play stuff, likely for Emma, and the third one is empty.

I strain my ears. The water has stopped running, which means Emma is now inside the bath. I need to hurry.

Rushing into the den, I stand transfixed by the sight of the massive basement door. Okay, not massive, but it’s definitely unnecessary. Why get a steel door just for renovations? Although it’s high-tech with the access code that is needed for entry, it looks weirdly out of place in the otherwise perfectly polished den that is full of wooden furniture, china accessories, and glass.

Before I lose my thoughts again, I hurry to the bookcase, then think better of it and go to the large wooden desk, opening the top drawer. There are papers, pens, and sticky notes, all perfectly organized. Nice, but not what I need.

Next, I open a side drawer. Bingo.

There are files in here, lots of them. Quickly grabbing the first one labeled Emma, I rifle through it, noting her birth certificate, a few awards and drawings from preschool and kindergarten, a ton of pictures from field trips and other events, her kindergarten graduation certificate, and some awards and medals from first and second grade.

I become lost in seeing Emma’s growth over the years. Judging from the glowing remarks from her teachers as well as the cuteness in her beaming smile, she really is a good kid.

But why aren’t these photos in an album somewhere? Maybe the Rodwell’s are planning to make a scrapbook?

I smile at that thought, then quickly replace that folder, stopping short when I see another one labeled “Angie.”

“Angie?” I whisper, wrinkling my nose. I reach for it, but before I can pull it out, Emma’s voice sounds from behind me.

“What are you doing?”

I whip around, taking in her fully dressed frame, matching bright colors from her romper to her shoes. Growing tongue-tied for a second, I muster a lie.

“Oh, I was… looking for a book to read!” I smile, closing the door to the drawer as I do.

Emma eyes me with a leery expression. “The bookcase is that way.”

Swallowing, I nod. “Yes, right. Thank you.”

Emma continues to watch me as I hurriedly scan the selections on the bookcase and pick out something random, but it actually looks like a good read: The Perfect Profile, by Toni Larue.

Before Emma can ask any more questions, I carry the book out of the den and she follows me to the living room.

But the name "Angie" burns in my mind. Who is she? And why does my gut tell me this matters?

Chapter 7

Sariah

We enter the living room and Emma's watching me with those knowing eyes. But I can't stop thinking about that folder. About Angie. Who is she? Why haven't the Rodwell’s mentioned her?

"Hey, how about you go outside?" I suggest, trying to keep my voice casual, light. "It's supposed to be nice today. I'm sure you'd rather be playing out there than cooped up in the house."

"No, I don't want to go outside." Emma's response is immediate, flat.

The silence that follows feels heavy, accusatory. I scramble for words, anything to break this tension. "But what about... why did you get all dressed up then?"

Emma's look is far too knowing for a seven-year-old. "You told me to take a bath."

More silence. The unspoken addition hangs in the air: Before you went snooping through my parents' desk.

My cheeks burn. This girl isn't just smart – she's observant. Too observant. I need to be more careful.

The folder calls to me from the den, but Emma's watchful presence keeps me anchored to the couch. She's not going to make this easy for me.

Something about her demeanor has changed since she caught me in the den. The sweet, chatty girl from breakfast is gone, replaced by this cautious, almost protective version.

What are you protecting, Emma? What secrets are hiding in that folder?

I force a smile. "Well, what would you like to do then?"

I study Emma's face as she stares me down. "I want to watch TV."

Something's off. What seven-year-old chooses to stay inside on a perfect summer day? Just yesterday she was bubbling over about camp activities, and now she won't even step outside?

My thoughts spiral until I catch myself. Stop it. Not every kid is the same. I was a bookworm at her age too, preferring indoor activities to running around outside.

But then I remember her enthusiasm about camp yesterday – the swimming, the outdoor games, all of it. The contrast is jarring.

A horrible thought creeps in: Is she suspicious of me?

The TV suddenly blasts to life, making me jump. Emma's already settled on the couch, some animated show filling the screen with bright colors and peppy music. She looks completely absorbed, but something tells me she's more aware than she's letting on.

I sink into the armchair, pretending to focus on the show while my mind races. This isn't how I planned to spend my morning. The folder in the den feels miles away now, though it's just one room over.

Emma laughs at something on screen, and I force myself to smile along. But I can't shake the feeling that this little girl is playing her own game – keeping watch over me just as much as I'm watching her.

Five more days suddenly feels like an eternity, especially if Emma's decided to be my shadow.

I need a new strategy. But as I sit here, trapped by cartoon characters and a surprisingly cunning seven-year-old, I'm not sure what that strategy could be.

But I already know this day is shot for searching. Emma isn't going to let me out of her sight.

I'll have to be smarter tomorrow.

Chapter 8

Sariah

Three hours of mindless scrolling while pretending to watch TV with Emma, and I've accomplished nothing. The invisible clock in my head ticks louder with each wasted minute.

I glance at her. She hasn't moved from her spot on the couch. She's engrossed in some documentary about dolphins now – apparently, they're not the friendly creatures everyone thinks they are. Behind those playful squeaks and permanent smiles, they're calculating predators. Highly intelligent. Dangerous.

"Ready for lunch?" I'm desperate for any change in routine, anything to break this stalemate.

Emma barely shifts her eyes from the screen. "Sure."

The casual dismissiveness in her tone reminds me that I'm being outmaneuvered by a seven-year-old. Like those deceptively cute dolphins, there's more going on behind those innocent eyes than she lets on.

Five more days of this, and I'm already climbing the walls. I need to get to that folder again, need to know who Angie is. But first, I need to figure out how to get past my pint-sized guard.

Entering the kitchen, I rifle through the fridge, trying to think of something different from yesterday's turkey and cheese. Emma's laugh echoes from the living room – at least she's in a better mood now.

Finding a can of tuna, I mix it with mayo and add chopped pickles. The Rodwell’s kitchen is ridiculously well-stocked. Even their chip selection is excessive – I count at least six different flavors in the cabinet.

"Hey Emma, which chips do you..." The words die in my throat as I step into the living room.

There, on the pristine cream-colored wall, just above the baseboard, are words scrawled in what looks like crayon. Childish handwriting, uneven and urgent.

"Emma! What did you do?"

But Emma's still on the couch, exactly where I left her, remote in hand. She turns to me, confusion clear on her face.

“What are you talking about?”

My heart pounds as I look between her and the wall. The TV drones on about dolphin behavior, but all I can focus on is the writing. Emma looks like she hasn't left the couch since we sat down this morning. I would have heard her moving around, wouldn’t I?

Then who...?

I force myself to really look at the words, and my blood runs cold.

The crayon marks seem to pulse against the cream wall. They're here. Who's here?

I suddenly feel like I can't get enough air.

"Emma, why did you write this?" I point at the scrawled message, trying to keep my voice steady.

She turns her head reluctantly toward the wall, as if she's afraid to look directly at it. "I didn't."

My patience frays. "Yes, you did. You and I are the only people here. This writing wasn't here a second ago. Why did you write this?"

I can hear the edge in my voice, see Emma shrinking away from my intensity. "I didn't!" she insists, but there's something in her eyes – not guilt exactly, but knowledge. She knows more than she's saying.

"Go eat your lunch," I manage, gesturing toward the kitchen. She practically runs from the room.

I gather cleaning supplies from under the sink, my hands shaking slightly. As I scrub at the crayon marks, that message burns in my mind: They're here.

Emma's reaction wasn't what I expected. Not the typical guilty defiance of a child caught misbehaving, but something deeper. Something fearful.

The crayon finally starts to fade under my scrubbing, but I can't shake the feeling that Emma was trying to tell me something. Not with words, but with what she wasn't saying.

What does she know? And who are "they"?

The wall comes clean, but the questions multiply. First the sleepwalking, now this. What is happening in this house that I don't understand?

Chapter 9

Sariah

The tension hangs between Emma and me for the rest of the day. We go through the motions – dinner, TV, bedtime routine – but something has shifted since the wall incident. Now that night has fallen, it’s time to make up for my missed opportunity.

Once I'm sure Emma's asleep, I creep downstairs. The house feels different at night, alive with shadows and creaking floors. I hold my breath with each step, hyperaware of every sound.

The den is darker than I expected, moonlight casting strange shapes through the windows. That steel basement door seems to loom larger in the darkness.

I make my way to the desk, my heart pounding in my ears. This is it. I'll finally see what's in that "Angie" folder.

But when I pull the handle, the drawer doesn't budge.

Locked.

My stomach drops. I try again, harder this time, but it's no use. The drawer that was open this morning is now firmly secured.

Did Emma tell her parents what happened? Did they tell her to lock it?

Or did I imagine the drawer being unlocked in the first place?

No. I know what I saw. That folder was real. Angie was real.

I stand in the darkness, staring at the locked drawer, while questions swirl in my mind. Emma obviously locked it. But why? And why does it feel like the house itself is watching me?

Five more nights. But something tells me I'm running out of time faster than I thought.

I'm halfway up the stairs when doubt creeps in. What if Emma already messaged her parents? What if they cut their trip short and come back tomorrow? I could lose everything I've worked for, all because I wasn't careful enough.

As I reach the top step, the light in Emma's bedroom suddenly clicks off.

I freeze on the landing, my heart in my throat. Was she awake this whole time? Watching me?

Moving closer to her door, I peer through the crack. Emma lies motionless in her bed, her breathing deep and rhythmic – the unmistakable pattern of real sleep.

But I saw that light go out. I know I did.

Unless…

“Emma?” I call out, halfway expecting her eyes to pop open and for her to shoot up in bed.

But she doesn’t. She doesn’t stir, doesn’t even flinch.

I press my palm against the wall to steady myself. Maybe I'm more tired than I thought. Maybe the stress of finding that drawer locked, the weird writing on the wall earlier, Emma's strange behavior – maybe it's all getting to me.

But even as I try to rationalize it, something feels wrong. The air seems heavier up here, colder.

I shake my head, trying to clear it. I'm being paranoid. Brandon's words echo again – about me being obsessive, needing help.

But as I turn toward my room, I can't shake the feeling that something in this house is off. Really off.

And somehow, I think Emma knows exactly what it is.

Chapter 10

Sariah

I perch on the edge of the guest bed, my phone clutched tight as I watch Emma's door through my own cracked doorway. The hallway feels endless in the darkness.

Brandon picks up on the third ring. "Hello?" His voice is thick with sleep.

"Brandon, I think something's going on with this house and with Emma." The words tumble out before I can stop them.

There's rustling on his end – sheets moving, him sitting up. "Babe, what are you talking about? What's going on?"

I open my mouth, then close it. How do I even explain this? That I found a mysterious folder? That Emma wrote creepy messages on the wall but claims she didn't? That lights are turning on and off by themselves?

It all sounds ridiculous now, like something from a bad horror movie. Brandon already thinks I'm unstable – this will just confirm it for him.

But I need to tell someone. The weight of everything I've seen is crushing me.

"Sariah?" His voice is more alert now, concerned. "Are you there?"

I take a deep breath. "Something weird is happening here, and I—"

A thump from Emma's room cuts me off mid-sentence.

My heart slams against my ribs as Emma's door inches open with an endless creak. The darkness of her room seems to stretch behind the door, and for one horrible moment, my mind conjures every terrifying possibility. The gleam of inhuman eyes, a twisted shape, something crawling—

But it's just Emma, her small figure emerging from the shadows. Her hair is mussed from sleep, her unicorn pajamas rumpled as she shuffles toward the bathroom. The mundane reality of it makes me feel foolish.

And yet.

Something about the way she moves seems off – too deliberate for a sleepy child.

"Sariah?" Brandon's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.

I watch Emma disappear into the bathroom, my mouth dry. The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to stop being ridiculous, but I can't shake the feeling that something isn't right. The air feels thick, heavy with unspoken things, and the darkness in Emma's room seems to pulse like a living thing.

What am I really seeing here? And what am I missing?

"Sariah?" Brandon's voice is sharp with worry.

"Let me call you back." I can hear how stupid this all is now – jumping at shadows, letting my imagination run wild.

"No, wait. Tell me what's going on." Brandon's tone is urgent, protective, and suddenly I'm ashamed of myself. What am I doing?

I end the call just as Emma emerges from the bathroom. She stops when she sees me, and for a moment we just stare at each other in the dim hallway.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

Something in her voice makes my skin prickle. But then I catch myself – I'm a grown woman, sitting here terrified of a little girl in unicorn pajamas. This is ridiculous.

"Nothing," I say, trying to sound casual. "Just on the phone with a friend." I hold up my phone like evidence.

Emma nods and heads back to her room, but that moment of eye contact lingers in my mind. There was something in her expression – not sleepiness, not confusion, but... knowing.

I sit in the darkness, listening to her door click shut, wondering why such a simple interaction feels so unsettling.

My phone buzzes with a text from Brandon: "Call me back. Please."

But what would I even say?

Chapter 11

Caroline

I smooth my sundress across the bed, already picturing how perfect it'll look against the ocean backdrop. Everything's going exactly as planned – the weather, the hotel, the timing.

The door clicks and Richard appears with our breakfast tray. He freezes when he sees my dress and other clothes spread across the bed, something flickering across his face.

"What?" I giggle, but I can feel my smile going brittle at the edges.

He opens his mouth, closes it. "Nothing," he mutters, heading for the balcony.

My hands still on the fabric. That dismissive tone, the way he won't meet my eyes – it sets something crackling under my skin.

"You don't have to walk around here like you have a stick up your ass, you know." The words come out sharp, cutting through the morning air.

Richard doesn't respond. Just keeps arranging things on the balcony table – plates, glasses, napkins. His movements are careful, measured. Too measured.

I stare at his back as he works, my fingers clenching the sundress. He thinks he's so much better than me, so much more in control.

I stalk onto the balcony, the ocean breeze doing nothing to cool my rising temper. "Do you hear me talking to you?"

"Yes, Caroline." His words come through clenched teeth, each syllable measured and tight.

"Why are you giving me attitude?"

"I'm not giving you an attitude." He sighs, turning to stare at the horizon where the sun paints everything gold. The morning is perfect – too perfect – making the tension between us feel even more wrong.

Something's been off with Richard lately. It's in the careful way he watches me, how he weighs each word before speaking. Like he's walking on eggshells. Like he's...

"Are you thinking of leaving me?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.

He finally meets my eyes, and the pain I see there makes my stomach clench. "No, Caroline, I would never leave you. I love you. It's just..."

"Just what?" The edge creeps back into my voice.

Richard gives me a long, heavy look. "Nothing."

"No." Ice crystallizes in my tone. "You've been acting strange lately and you need to let it all out now before this baby comes." A sense of dizziness washes over me, but I ignore it. "I'm not about to do this with you so close to Richie's arrival."

A harsh laugh escapes him as he shakes his head. "Caroline, you..." He stops himself, something dark passing behind his eyes before his expression shifts completely. "Let's just enjoy our week, okay? This is supposed to be about us, right baby?"

He steps forward, wrapping his arms around me, pressing a kiss to my forehead. I want to hold onto my anger, but I feel myself melting into him already.

I gaze up into Richard's eyes, letting my anger dissolve. "That's what I've been trying to say this whole time, baby. I don't want to fight with you."

His lips meet mine in a gentle kiss, and for a moment, everything feels right again. Like before. When he pulls back, his eyes search my face.

"Not too much longer, right?"

My lips curve into a smile, and something warm and dark unfurls in my chest. "Not too much longer at all."

Chapter 12

Sariah

I never called Brandon back last night, but he sent me a series of text messages showing me exactly how he felt:

"Please call me back."

"I'm worried about you."

"Maybe going to that house wasn't good for your mental health."

"You should tell them to come home."

The phone screen glows in the early morning darkness, his words burning into my retinas. He thinks I'm losing it. Just like before.

But I'm not crazy.

The locked drawer, Emma's strange behavior, the writing on the wall, the lights – it's all real. And I can’t forget that folder. I’m close to the truth. I can feel it.

I set my phone face-down on the nightstand, ignoring another incoming text from Brandon. He means well, but he doesn't understand. I came here for answers.

Down the hall, I hear Emma stirring. Soon she'll be up, and we'll go through another day of pretending everything is normal. But nothing about this house is normal.

Four more days. That's all I need.

Heading to the bathroom to freshen up, I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the exhaustion from last night. My reflection looks haunted, dark circles under my eyes. I change quickly into jeans and a t-shirt, not bothering with makeup today.

The sound of cartoons drifts from Emma's room as I pass by. At least some things are still normal – what kid doesn't wake up and immediately turn on TV?

The stairs creak under my feet as I head down. I should probably make something nice for breakfast, try to smooth things over after yesterday, but I can't muster the energy. My mind is too full of locked drawers and mysterious folders.

In the kitchen, I pull out two bowls and the box of Frosted Flakes. The mundane morning routine feels surreal after everything that's happened. Like playing house in a fun-house mirror.

The cereal rattles into the bowls, and I catch myself straining to hear any unusual sounds from upstairs. But there's only the muffled dialogue of whatever show Emma's watching.

I pour the milk, wondering if Emma will mention last night, if she even remembers our strange encounter in the hallway. Part of me hopes she does. Part of me hopes she'll slip up and reveal something.

I head back upstairs to tell her breakfast is ready, but when I reach the top step, mouth open to call Emma for breakfast, I hear it – a whispered conversation through her door. My blood runs cold. She's definitely talking to someone, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.

Without thinking, I race over and push the door open. "Who are you talking to?"

Emma sits cross-legged on her bed, remote in hand, startled by my appearance and looking at me like I'm the strange one. "What are you talking about?"

But I heard her. I know I heard her.

The TV plays some cartoon in the background, but it wasn't that – this was different. A real conversation.

I scan the room, taking in every corner, every shadow. The closet door is closed. The window is shut. Her iPad sits on her desk.

I try to keep my voice steady. "I heard you whispering to someone."

Emma's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes. "I was just watching TV."

We stare at each other, the cartoon's cheerful music creating an unsettling backdrop to this moment. I want to press her, to demand the truth, but what would I say? That I heard her talking to ghosts?

"Breakfast is ready," I manage. "Cereal today."

Emma nods, but doesn't move. Just keeps watching me with those knowing eyes.

I back out of the room, feeling like I'm the one being dismissed. As I turn away, I swear I hear another whisper, so faint it might be my imagination. I turn back, but Emma’s eyes are glued to the screen.

What the fuck is going on?

She turns to me. “I’ll come down in a minute.” She speaks as if my presence is annoying her.

Glancing around her room one last time as if someone is about to pop out of her closet or crawl out from under the bed, I finally sink in defeat.

Going back downstairs, I wonder if maybe my mind is playing tricks on me.

But the other part knows it isn’t. I heard Emma whispering. Who was she talking to?

Chapter 13

Sariah

Another day has gone by and time is winding up. Soon, the Rodwell’s will be back home and my brief window of having access to their home will be over. I check my phone – three days left. Just three days to uncover whatever secrets this house is hiding.

But Emma is not making this easy for me. She's a good kid, but I need her to give me a few moments alone so I can dig. Ever since I caught her "talking to no one," she's been my constant shadow. If I go upstairs, she follows. If I start cleaning, she wants to help. Even bathroom breaks are accompanied by her voice through the door, asking if I'm okay.

It would be sweet if it didn't feel so deliberate.

She's watching me. The question is: did someone tell her to, or does she know what I'm looking for?

I sit on the living room couch, pretending to scroll through my phone while actually watching Emma draw on her iPad. My fingers itch to pick that locked drawer in the den, to rifle through more folders, to find something – anything – to help me assure myself I’m not crazy.

But first, I need to figure out how to get Emma out of the way.

I glance out the window at the perfect summer day. This might be my only chance.

"Hey Emma, why don't we go play outside for a bit? It's beautiful out."

She doesn't look up from her drawing. "No thanks."

"Come on, we could make chalk drawings on the driveway." I keep my voice light, casual. "Or maybe set up that sprinkler your mom mentioned?"

"I said no." Her stylus pen moves faster across the iPad, pressing harder.

"Emma, you need some fresh air. We've been cooped up in here the past few days." I'm trying to sound like a responsible babysitter, but desperation creeps into my voice. "Just for a little while—"

"And if you try to make me, I'll tell Mommy you were looking through her things!"

The words explode out of her like she's been holding them back for days. Like she's been waiting to use them.

My carefully laid plans crumble in an instant.

The threat hangs in the air between us. She knows. She's known this whole time.

"Is that who you were talking to in your room?" I ask, keeping my voice steady. "Did you call your mother?"

Emma goes still, like a deer in headlights. "I told you I wasn't talking to anyone."

Something snaps inside me. "Emma, you were. Just like you drew on your Mommy's living room wall too."

Our eyes lock in a silent battle of wills. For a moment, I see something in those young eyes, something that doesn't belong there. Then her shoulders slump, and her expression returns to normal.

"I just don't wanna go outside." Tears well up in her eyes, and despite everything, my heart twists.

"Why not?" I lean forward, sensing we're finally getting somewhere.

Emma's lip trembles. She opens her mouth, and I can see it – the truth about to spill out.

Then my phone buzzes, Caroline's name lighting up the screen.

Emma's face changes instantly, and I know the moment is lost.

"Hi Caroline," I say, watching Emma's shoulders tense at her mother's voice. Her stylus stills on the iPad, and though she pretends not to listen, I can tell she's hanging on every word.

"Hey Sariah! I'm just calling to check on you and Emma. How are things going?"

I choose my words with care, aware of Emma's eyes on me. "We're good. I was just trying to get Emma to go outside to play."

There's a slight pause, a hitch in Caroline's breath that most people would miss. "Oh - Emma is more of an inside child, dear. We usually have to force her out." Her laugh sounds forced, brittle. "She has plenty of board games and other activities to do in the house. Did she show you her iPad? My daughter is quite the artist."

Something's off. It's not the words themselves, but the undercurrent of anxiety beneath them. Like she's trying too hard to sound casual, to direct the conversation away from Emma going outside.

I glance at Emma, who's now gripping her stylus so tight I’m afraid she will break it. What are they hiding?

But I can't exactly interrogate my employer about her parenting choices. "Yes, she's actually drawing on her iPad now," I reply, defeated.

"Excellent. Tell her to show you her drawings. We've got a baby Picasso on our hands!"

The relief in Caroline's voice is palpable, and it sets off more alarm bells in my head. First Emma's strange behavior, now this.

What is going on with the Rodwell’s?

Chapter 14

Sariah

I watch Emma stare at the TV, some mind-numbing cartoon playing for the third time today. My skin crawls with restlessness. Three days left, and I'm sitting here watching reruns while answers hide behind locked drawers and closed doors.

"I need to use the bathroom," I announce, half-expecting Emma to trail after me like she's been doing all day.

But she just nods, eyes glued to the screen. Finally.

In the bathroom, I grip the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection. I need to think. Need to figure out how to get into that drawer, how to make Emma talk, how to—

The house feels different when I step out. Quieter.

The TV's cheerful chatter has stopped.

I move toward the living room, my footsteps too loud in the sudden silence. The couch is empty, Emma's blanket crumpled where she sat moments ago.

"Emma?"

No answer.

After days of not being able to shake her, she's vanished in the few minutes I was gone.

My heart pounds as I scan the room. Did she go upstairs? Outside?

Or did she catch on to what I was planning?

The empty room offers no answers, just the lingering sensation that somehow, I'm the one being watched.

The smell of chocolate draws me to the kitchen. Emma stands on her tiptoes at the counter, carefully arranging cookies on a plate. Not just any cookies – my favorite kind - chocolate chip. The ones I mentioned in passing two days ago.

"I made you a snack," she says, pushing the plate toward me with a shy smile. "I warmed these up in the microwave, and look – I poured milk too."

I stare at the setup, thrown off balance. This is the same girl who threatened to tell on me barely three hours ago. The same one who's been watching my every move like a tiny security guard.

"Thank you," I say slowly, pulling out a chair. "That's... really thoughtful of you."

Emma beams, but there's something behind that smile. Something calculating. I have enough experience with kids to know when they're trying to butter you up.

"I thought maybe we could watch a movie together?" She slides into the chair next to me, all innocence now. "You can pick."

My guard goes up higher. Emma never let me pick what we watched before.

Staring at the cookies for a second, an insane thought fills my mind. Is she about to poison me? But then I quickly brush it away, embarrassed at the thought. Emma is seven years old. What would she know about poison?

I bite into a cookie, studying her face. Is this guilt? Or is she trying to distract me from whatever she and her mother are hiding?

"Sure," I say, playing along. "A movie sounds nice."

Emma relaxes slightly, but her eyes never leave my face. Like she's making sure her peace offering works.

Like she's making sure I stay right where she can see me.

Chapter 15

Sariah

I can’t figure this little girl out.

It’s like a light switch has flipped and she’s back to being nice, shy, and sweet. After eating the cookies, we settled into the living room where Emma let me pick out a movie, as promised.

I popped some popcorn for us and we ended up having a great day.

Now it’s bedtime and Emma and I are heading upstairs.

Emma's room feels different at night. Softer somehow, with her flower nightlight casting gentle shadows on the walls. Almost enough to make me forget about the whispers I heard in here yesterday.

"Can you read me a bedtime story?" she asks, and I hesitate. This isn't part of our routine. Emma usually disappears into her room after brushing her teeth, doing her own nightly routine while I do mine.

"Sure," I say slowly, watching her face for any sign of ulterior motives.

But she just smiles and pads over to her bookshelf, small fingers trailing along spines until she finds what she's looking for. It's an old book, its cover worn soft at the edges. Not one of the shiny new titles I've seen her reading.

She crawls into bed and pats the space beside her. I sit down, hyper-aware of how normal this feels. How wrong that normalcy seems.

"This was my favorite when I was little," she says, handing me the book. The way she says it – when I was little – makes her sound old.

I open to the first page, and Emma snuggles closer, her head resting against my arm. She smells like watermelon body wash and childhood innocence.

For a moment, I almost forget about the locked drawer, about all the secrets in this house.

Almost.

But then Emma speaks again, her voice drowsy. "Angie used to read this to me too."

My heart stops.

“Angie?” I repeat.

Emma’s eyes pop open wide.

“Who is Angie, Emma?”

She stares at me. “I meant Mommy.”

My eyes narrow. “But you said Angie.”

Fear dances in her eyes before being replaced with an eerily perfect mask of innocence. "I'm sleepy," she murmurs, closing her eyes.

I'm stuck. What am I supposed to do – shake answers out of a seven-year-old?

Her breathing deepens into the rhythm of sleep, but something about it feels too perfect, too unnatural. Like she's performing sleep rather than actually drifting off.

I place the book back on the shelf, flip off her light, and crack the door. Maybe I should stop trying to get answers from Emma. The girl's clearly been coached on keeping secrets.

Standing in the doorway of my guest room, I contemplate my next move. But exhaustion hits me suddenly, dragging at my limbs.

I head to bed to sleep another night away.

***

A few hours later, I jolt awake, my arms still reaching for empty air. I had a terrible dream, and the baby's cries echo in my mind, desperate and pleading. So close, but always just beyond my grasp.

My shirt clings to my back with cold sweat. I check my phone – 2:17 AM. The house creaks around me, settling sounds that suddenly seem meaningful in the dark.

I need water. Or maybe something stronger, but I don't think the Rodwell’s would appreciate me raiding their liquor cabinet.

The hallway stretches long and dark before me. I pass Emma's room, pausing at her door. No whispers tonight. Just soft, steady breathing.

The stairs protest under my feet despite my careful steps. In the kitchen, moonlight spills through the windows, turning everything silver and strange. I don't turn on the lights – somehow, the dark feels safer, like I'm less visible this way.

As I fill a glass at the sink, something catches my eye through the window. A movement in the backyard, maybe? I lean closer to the glass, squinting into the darkness.

Nothing. Just shadows and wind-rustled trees.

But then—

A sound. So faint I might have imagined it.

A baby crying.

The glass slips from my hand, but I catch it before it can shatter in the sink. My heart pounds against my ribs as I strain to hear it again.

Silence.

Just the remnants of my nightmare, I tell myself. Has to be.

But I can't shake the feeling that something out there is waiting for me to notice it.

Chapter 16

Sariah

The morning sun does nothing to erase the shadows in my mind. I stare into my coffee cup, replaying the sound of that cry. It felt so real – just like before, when everyone told me I was imagining things.

Brandon's words echo in my head: "You're becoming obsessed, Sariah. You need to let this go."

My hands tighten around the mug. Easy for him to say. He wasn't there. He didn't hear what I heard, didn't see what I saw.

Just like he isn't here now, in this house where every corner holds another secret. Where a seven-year-old girl guards her mother's drawers and whispers at the walls. Where baby cries echo in the night – real or imagined, I'm not even sure anymore.

Maybe I am obsessed. Maybe I am seeing connections that aren't there, hearing things that don't exist. But how can I walk away when every instinct screams that I'm close to something? When Emma's fearful eyes and Caroline's nervous laughter tell me I'm not crazy at all?

The sound of small feet on the stairs snaps me back to reality. I straighten up and focus back on the breakfast I’m preparing, setting the coffee mug down and trying to look like a normal babysitter having a normal morning.

Emma pads into the kitchen as I push scrambled eggs around the pan. She's already dressed, which is unusual – normally she takes her bath after breakfast.

"Morning," I say, sliding eggs onto her plate next to the toast. "You're up early."

She settles into her chair, takes a careful sip of orange juice, then drops her bombshell: "I want to ride my bike today."

I freeze, spatula hovering over the pan. Did I hear that right?

"Ride your bike?" I repeat. "Outside?"

She nods, beaming at me over her glass. "Yes. Can we go after breakfast?"

"Yes. We can!" The words rush out before my brain catches up with my mouth.

Then it hits me – we. Not, "I want to ride my bike today." Not, "Can I go outside?"

We.

I watch her use the kiddie knife to cut her toast into precise triangles, and my earlier excitement deflates. This isn't Emma suddenly wanting fresh air. This is Emma making sure I stay exactly where she can see me.

We eat silently and I sneak glances at Emma the whole time but she doesn’t seem to notice. I scrape the last of my eggs onto my fork, studying Emma's eager face. Something's off about this whole thing. Just yesterday she threw a fit when I suggested going outside, and now she can barely wait to finish breakfast?

The dishes clatter into the sink with unusual force. Emma's practically bouncing on her toes, hands clasped behind her back. "Ready?"

Her enthusiasm feels rehearsed, like she's putting on a show. But for what purpose?

"Let me just rinse these dishes first," I say, watching her reaction carefully.

A flicker of something – impatience? anxiety? – crosses her face before she masks it with another bright smile. "Okay, but hurry! It's a perfect day for bike riding."

Perfect day. Right. Just like it was yesterday, and the day before, when she refused to set foot outside.

I take my time with the dishes, pretending not to notice how she shifts from foot to foot, how her eyes keep darting to the window. It's like she's working from a script, and I'm messing up her timing.

"Alright," I say finally, drying my hands. "Let's go ride that bike."

Emma's already halfway to the garage, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm walking right into whatever she's planned.

But maybe that's exactly what I need to do to get some answers.

I use the button on the wall to lift the garage door, then stare at the two bikes sitting side by side in the garage's dim light. One is obviously Emma's – cotton candy pink with streamers on the handlebars, and she immediately rushes to sit on it.

But the other one...

"Emma, whose bike is that?" I ask, pointing to the purple one. It's another child's bike, maybe sized for a nine or ten-year-old.

She doesn't answer, just yanks her bike forward with more force than necessary.

"Emma?" I try again. "The purple bike – who does it belong to?"

Her shoulders stiffen. "I only use this one," she says, her voice sharp enough to cut. The message is clear: conversation over.

Before I can press further, she's wheeling her bike out, pedaling furiously toward the backyard. I linger in the garage, drawn to the purple bike like a magnet. The chain is rusty, the seat covered in a fine layer of dust.

Did Emma want me to see this? Is that why she suddenly needed to ride bikes – to show me without telling me?

Or am I reading too much into everything again, seeing clues where there are only coincidences?

I glance toward the backyard where Emma is making tight circles on her pink bike, very deliberately not looking my way.

That purple bike belongs to someone.

Chapter 17

Sariah

I watch Emma pedal in wide circles, her face set in concentration. Every few loops, she glances my way, like she's making sure I'm still here. Still watching. Still not exploring.

What are you trying to tell me, Emma?

First the cookies, then the bedtime story where Angie's name slipped out, and now this orchestrated bike ride. It's like she's leaving breadcrumbs, but I can't quite follow the trail.

If I push too hard, she clams up. If I don't push at all, we stay trapped in this dance of half-truths and meaningful glances.

She makes another loop, this time wobbling slightly. I step forward automatically, but she rights herself, throwing me a look that's almost annoyed. Like I'm not following the script she's written in her head.

Maybe that's the problem – I'm thinking like an adult, trying to decode her actions with adult logic. But Emma's seven. Seven-year-olds don't plot and scheme, do they?

Except this one does.

This one guards locked drawers and changes the subject when she says too much and arranges bike rides to show me things she can't say out loud.

Why can't she say them out loud?

Emma pedals faster now, her pigtails flying behind her. There's something desperate in her movements, like she's trying to outride whatever secret she's carrying.

I need to stop trying to crack her like a puzzle and start seeing her for what she is – a little girl caught in something bigger than herself.

A little girl who might be asking for help in the only way she knows how.

My phone buzzes, startling me from my thoughts. Caroline's name flashes on the screen.

I hesitate, thumb hovering over the answer button. Every conversation with her feels like navigating a minefield – never knowing which casual question might trigger another strange reaction.

"Hi, Sariah!" Caroline's voice rings through my speakerphone, artificially bright. "How is Emma?"

I keep my eyes on Emma as she circles the yard. "She's riding her bike."

The silence that follows is deafening. One second stretches into three.

"Riding her bike where?" Caroline's tone has shifted, the bubbliness replaced by something sharp and brittle.

"The backyard," I say, and I swear I can hear her exhale through the phone.

"Oh, great." The cheerfulness snaps back into place like a mask being reattached. "Good for her to get some fresh air."

Good for her to get fresh air. As if Emma hasn't been refusing to step outside for days. As if Caroline didn't just tell me yesterday that she was more of an “indoor child”. As if there isn't another bike sitting in that garage, collecting dust.

Emma makes another loop, closer this time, and I know she's straining to hear my conversation.

"Everything else okay?" Caroline asks, too casually.

I watch Emma pedal, trying to think of what to say next.

"Everything's fine," I lie.

And I realize we're all doing it now – speaking in codes, hiding truths behind careful words. Even me.

Especially me.

I snap out of it.

"The purple bike in the garage," I blurt out before I can stop myself. "Who does it belong to?"

Another silence, longer this time. I can almost hear Caroline choosing her words.

"Oh, that old thing?" Her laugh sounds like shattering glass. "That's just one of Emma's friend's bikes. Must have left it here last time they played."

One of Emma's friends. Right. The same friends she's never mentioned, the ones who apparently never come looking for their abandoned bikes.

Emma's pedaling has slowed, and I know she's listening intently now, her back rigid with attention.

"Which friend?" I ask, pushing my luck.

"Oh, you know..." Caroline's voice trails off vaguely. "I can't remember exactly. We have so many kids over."

“Maybe Emma and I can go return it to her,” I pressed again, a trickle of sweat going down my back.

Caroline’s laugh is light and nervous. “Oh no, dear. Don’t trouble yourself. We’ll return it when we get home.”

I watch Emma's knuckles tighten on her handlebars.

"I should go," Caroline says quickly. "Just wanted to check in. Keep an eye on Emma, okay?"

The line goes dead before I can respond.

I lower my phone, meeting Emma's gaze across the yard. She's stopped pedaling completely now, watching me with those attentive eyes.

She heard every word of that lie, and she knows I know it was a lie.

But what can either of us do about it?

Chapter 18

Sariah

I wait until Emma's tired of riding, her cheeks flushed from the morning sun. She parks her bike carefully next to the purple one, and I notice how she angles her body between me and the mysterious bike, as if trying to make me forget what I saw.

"Are you thirsty?" I ask. "How about some lemonade?"

She nods, following me into the kitchen. While I pour our drinks, I decide to try a different approach.

"You're really good at riding bikes," I say casually. "Do you practice a lot?"

Emma shrugs, tracing a finger through the condensation on her glass. "Sometimes."

"With your friends?"

Her finger stops moving. "I don't have friends over."

"But your mom said—"

"Mom says a lot of things." Her voice is flat, empty of emotion. It sends a chill down my spine.

I set my glass down carefully. "Emma, if there's something you want to tell me..."

She looks up then, and the expression in her eyes makes my breath catch. It's not fear exactly, but something deeper. Something worse.

I set my glass down carefully. "Emma, if there's something you want me to know..."

She looks up then, and something shutters behind her eyes, like blinds being drawn.

"No. There's nothing you need to know."

My heart lurches. We were so close – the bike ride, the way she's been watching me, waiting for me to understand. And now this wall, sliding into place as seamlessly as if it had never been gone.

"Emma, you can tell me." I try to keep my voice gentle, undemanding. "Whatever it is—"

"No." She shakes her head with such force her braids whip back and forth. "There's nothing to tell."

Before I can say another word, she slides off her chair and walks out, her untouched lemonade leaving rings of condensation on the table. The sound of cartoons drifts in from the living room seconds later, too loud, like she's trying to drown out any chance of further conversation.

I stay at the kitchen table, staring at her empty chair. Every time I think I'm getting somewhere, every time I think she's about to crack open this mystery, she retreats further into herself.

But I saw it in her eyes before she shut down – that desperate need to speak warring with whatever force keeps her silent.

What are you protecting, Emma? Or who?

And why does it feel like the answer is right in front of me, if I could just piece it together?

Chapter 19

Sariah

I gather Emma's untouched lemonade, ready to bring it to her in the living room, when I hear it – the sound of a child's laughter. Not Emma's. Different. Lower-pitched.

The glass nearly slips from my hand.

I hear the laughter but can’t tell where it’s coming from. My heart pounds against my ribs as I set the glass down with trembling fingers.

No. I am not imagining this. I am not going crazy.

"Hello?" I call out, my voice steadier than I feel.

The TV drones on in the living room. Emma doesn't respond.

Then it comes again – that laugh, closer this time.

My hands grip the kitchen counter as the pieces start to align. The purple bike. The cookies. The name that slipped out in the dark.

Angie.

I drop to my knees, following the sound. The hardwood is cold under my palms as I crawl toward the hallway, ears straining. There – another giggle, muffled but distinct.

I’m about to enter the carpeted hallway when my hand brushes metal. A vent.

I press my ear against the grating, barely breathing. No more laughter. Did I imagine it?

I couldn’t have. I know I heard it. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.

The basement.

The realization hits me like ice down my back. Mrs. Rodwell said they were doing renovations in the basement.

My fingers trace the edges of the vent. The screws are deeply tightened. There’s no way to get it open without a screwdriver.

I call down again, directly through the vent. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

Silence. The silence is so deafening it’s as if I never heard a sound in the first place.

The TV volume suddenly increases in the living room – so loud it makes me jump. I look up to see Emma standing in the doorway, remote control in her tight-knuckled grip. Her face is drained of color.

She knows.

She knows I've found something I wasn't supposed to find.

But what exactly have I found?

Who is laughing in the basement that’s supposedly closed for renovations?

"What are you doing?" Emma's voice is tight, controlled.

I rise slowly from the floor, my knees shaking. "Emma, what's in the basement?"

"Nothing." The word comes too quickly, and something flashes in her eyes – fear? Warning?

My eyes narrow. "Do you know the access code?"

She shakes her head, but her fingers twitch against her sides. Another lie.

"I heard laughter," I say, knowing how crazy it sounds even as the words leave my mouth. But I'm done doubting myself. Done pretending.

Emma stares at me, and there's something unnatural about her stillness. "I don't know how," she says flatly. "We're the only ones here."

We're the only ones here. We both know that’s not true.

I follow her back to the living room because what choice do I have? The steel door needs an access code I don't have. If I try to call the police and they break into the basement, what am I going to do if they find nothing?

I begin to feel like maybe I’m losing my mind… again.

But as Emma turns up the volume even louder, as she positions herself between me and the hallway, I know what I have to do.

I have to get into that basement.

I have to find that code.

I have to know what's behind all of this.

Because somewhere beneath our feet, someone is laughing. Someone who, according to everyone in this house, doesn't exist.

And Emma – Emma who leaves me clues but won't speak the truth, Emma who guards secrets that are too heavy for her small shoulders – Emma knows exactly who it is.

Chapter 20

Sariah

It’s half-past midnight and I am standing in front of the steel door in the den, my phone's flashlight casting shadows across its surface. The keypad glows an eerie blue in the darkness, mocking me with its simple interface. Four numbers between me and... what?

Earlier today, I heard laughter through that vent. Real laughter. A child's laughter.

My fingers hover uselessly over the keypad. I watched Caroline enter the code my first day here – but I wasn’t able to see what she punched in.

I press my ear against the cold metal of the door, straining to hear... anything. But there's only silence now. No laughter. No footsteps. No proof I'm not going crazy.

The house creaks above me, and I freeze. But it's just the settling of old wood, not Emma awakening to find me here, trying to break into a basement that’s supposedly closed for renovations.

I step back from the door, frustrated. I know there's something behind it. Someone. I just need to figure out Caroline's code.

Turning off the flashlight, I unlock my screen and tap a contact in my phone. He answers after a few rings. "Brandon," I whisper into my phone, backing away from the basement door. "I need your help."

"What's wrong?" His voice is groggy with sleep.

"I need you to come over. Now. There's something-"

"Are you crazy?" The sleep vanishes from his voice. "It's the middle of the night, Sariah. If I go to those people's house, I could be arrested on sight."

"No one will know you're here." Even as I say it, I hear how it sounds. Breaking and entering. Trespassing. Criminal.

"Listen to me." His voice turns serious. "Call the Rodwell’s. Tell them to come back. This job... I should have never let you take it. You can't go any further without doing something illegal."

Let me take it. As if he had any say in my decisions. As if I haven't been making my own choices since I was seventeen.

"I heard a child laughing, Brandon. In the basement." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "And Emma—she's trying to tell me something. She's been trying this whole time."

"Sariah—"

"No." I cut him off, my voice hard even in its whisper. "I'm not backing down. Not this time. There's something wrong in this house, and I'm going to find out what it is. With or without your help."

The silence on the other end stretches long enough that I think he's hung up.

Finally, he sighs. "You're going to get yourself into trouble."

"Maybe," I say, staring at the basement door. "But what if someone's already in trouble? What if they need help?"

"Sariah..." Brandon's voice softens with that particular gentleness I've grown to hate. "Maybe we should have you see that doctor again."

The words hit me like ice water. That doctor. Dr. Edwards with her concerned eyes and endless questions about my "episode." The endless weeks of therapy after I lost touch with reality, after trauma twisted my mind into seeing things that weren't there.

But this is different.

This is real.

Isn't it?

"You don't wanna help me?" My voice comes out hard, brittle. "Fine. I'll figure it out myself."

"Sariah!"

I hang up, my hands shaking as I lower the phone. The basement door looms before me in the darkness, suddenly seeming less solid. Less certain.

Am I doing it again? Creating mysteries where there are none? Hearing things because I want – need – there to be something to solve?

But no. The purple bike is real. The locked drawer is real. Emma's strange behavior is real.

The laughter was real.

Wasn't it?

I press my palms against my temples, trying to sort truth from imagination. Brandon's words echo in my head: That doctor again. That doctor again. That doctor again.

But he didn't hear the laughter. He hasn't seen Emma's desperate hints, her careful choreography of clues.

I'm not crazy.

Not this time.

I can't be.

Chapter 21

Caroline

I trace circles on Richard's bare chest, watching the play of moonlight through the hotel curtains. His chestnut-colored skin is warm beneath my fingertips, but I can feel the tension in his muscles, the slight catch in his breathing.

"Are you ready?" I whisper, though I already know the answer. We've been building to this moment for months.

He hesitates, just for a second. His body goes rigid under my touch before consciously relaxing again.

"Yes, baby. Of course I am."

But I hear what he doesn't say. The doubt. The fear. The same questions that keep me awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if we're ready for this.

Another baby isn’t a frivolous expenditure like a new car or watch. It’s a lifelong commitment - a serious responsibility.

But we’ve done it before and we can do it again. Especially since this time we will finally have our son.

I press my cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Strong. Steady. Even when he's uncertain, Richard has always been my anchor.

I trace another circle on Richard's chest, contemplating the changes ahead. "How do you think Emma's going to respond? She's certainly old enough for a younger sibling. Do you think she'll be jealous?"

Richard's muscles tighten under my fingers. "Too late to turn back now, right?" There's an edge to his voice I choose to ignore. "Richie's almost here, like you keep on saying. We go to the hospital tomorrow."

I feel my own body stiffen at his tone, at his reluctance. But then I force myself to relax. Of course he's nervous. This is different from Emma. This is his son. The boy he's always wanted, ever since we first talked about having children.

Richard and I planned this babymoon for two reasons: one, to get some time away before Richie was born, and two, to surprise Emma with her baby brother when we returned from our trip.

"We'll be fine, baby," I say, smiling up at him in the darkness. My heart swells thinking about tomorrow, about finally holding our little boy. About bringing him home to meet his big sister.

"We sure will," Richard says, his voice carefully neutral.

I rest my head back on his chest, letting myself drift in the anticipation of tomorrow. Everything's ready at home. The nursery is perfect – soft blue walls, white furniture, the mobile I ordered spinning gentle shadows on the ceiling.

We just have to go to the hospital, endure the procedure… then he will be here.

Emma will love having a baby brother. She has to.

And Richard... Richard will be fine once he holds his son.

Everything will be perfect.

It has to be.

Chapter 22

Sariah

The next morning, I watch Emma picking at her breakfast, pushing scrambled eggs around her plate. She knows the code. She has to. The way she looked at me yesterday, the way she's been trying to tell me things without telling me things…

Before I can stop myself, I blurt the question, fighting to keep the desperation from my tone. "Emma," I say carefully, "What kind of games do you like to play?"

She looks up, suspicious. "What do you mean?"

"Well..." I lean against the counter, casual. "I used to love codes when I was your age. Secret messages. Hidden clues." I watch her fingers tighten around her fork. "Did you know there are actual code-breaking games? Like treasure hunts, but with numbers?"

Her eyes flicker to the hallway – the one that leads to the den where the basement door waits – before snapping back to me. "I don't like games."

But there's something in her voice. A tremor. A tell.

"That's too bad," I say, rising and walking to the sink to rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. "Because I thought maybe we could play one. You know, while your parents are away. Something just between us."

The fork scrapes against the plate. "They'll be home soon," she says. “Only one more day.”

My hands still under the running water. There's something in the way she says it. Something wrong.

"Emma..." I turn back to her slowly. "Do you want to tell me something?"

She stares at me, and for a moment – just a moment – I see everything she's trying to say written across her face. Then the walls slam back up.

"I have to go to my room," she announces, sliding off her chair.

But she hesitates in the doorway, just for a second. Like she's waiting for me to ask the right question.

If only I knew what that question was.

We stare at each other for a long moment, then Emma turns toward the hallway again. My heart sinks in defeat.

Before she can get too far though, we both hear it: the unmistakable sound of a child shrieking.

We both freeze at the sound, piercing through the morning quiet. Emma's eyes lock with mine, and in that moment, I see raw fear replace her careful mask.

Then we're both running.

Our feet pound against the hardwood as we race toward the vent – the same one I was listening at yesterday, the same one Emma caught me at. The same one that's been trying to tell me something all along.

Before we reach it, another cry rings out.

My body goes cold.

That's not just any child's cry. That's a baby.

My mind stutters to a halt, refusing to process what I'm hearing.

Emma grabs my arm, her fingers digging in with desperate strength. "You can't tell," she whispers, but her eyes are pleading. "You can't tell anyone."

The baby cries again, the sound muffled but unmistakable. Then she yells a single word that springs me into action: “Mommy!”

I am past reason. I turn to Emma, my tone and expression stern. "Emma," I hear myself say, my voice strange and distant. "What's in the basement?"

She swallows hard, her grip on my arm tightening. "No one," she whispers, but I can see in her eyes that she’s tired of lying.

I kneel down, pressing my ear against the vent, breath catching in my throat. “Hello?” I choke out, not able to believe this is happening. “Can you hear me?”

I look up at Emma, who now has silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Can you hear me?” I repeat, my voice full of emotion and my heart in my throat.

Then a soft voice says, “Yes,” and all hell breaks loose.

Emma trailing on my heels, I run straight outside to the tool shed, then return to the house and barrel toward the den. I am getting inside that basement even if I have to break down the motherfucking door.

Chapter 23

Caroline

I watch the city scroll past the car window, staring at my cinnamon-colored complexion in the rearview as I make sure not a single hair is out of place. Today's the day. After all the planning, all the preparation, all the careful arrangements... Today, Richie will be born.

I’m nervous about the procedure, but my excitement outweighs my nerves.

Richard's heavily focused on the road. He hasn't said much this morning. But that's okay. I know he's nervous. This is different from Emma. This is his son.

"I can't wait to see Emma's face," I say, trying to lighten the mood. "She's going to be so surprised when we come home with her baby brother."

Richard's jaw clenches. "Caroline..."

I busy myself by checking the house cameras. My body relaxes as I realize everything is in order, just like it’s been every day of our babymoon.

The kitchen cam shows empty. Dining room, empty. The den…

My heart stops as I stare at the screen, at the unmistakable image of Sariah in the den. She's not just in the den – she's at the door. The basement door. And Emma...

"No!" The word tears from my throat.

Richard startles, the car swerving slightly. "What is it?"

I can't speak. Can't tear my eyes from the screen, from Sariah using some kind of tool to try to open the door, from Emma's small figure beside her. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. Not now. Not when we're on the way to the hospital.

"Caroline?" Richard's voice sharpens with fear. "Tell me."

"We need to get home," I whisper, watching as Sariah straightens up, her face changed with some horrible realization. Then louder, my fingers crushing the phone: "We need to get home, now!"

“What’s going on?” he asks, his tone laced with desperation.

I speak through gritted teeth. “She’s trying to get in the fucking basement.”

Richard's eyes go wide with apprehension. He knows. He knows what this means.

We’re only about forty-five minutes away from home, but every second counts.

The car jerks as Richard swerves to the fast lane, then makes an illegal U-turn through the gap in the highway median, tires squealing against asphalt as he miraculously cuts into ongoing traffic.

Chapter 24

Sariah

My fingers slip on another screw as sweat drips down my spine. The screwdriver bites into my palm as I wrench it counterclockwise. One more screw clatters to the floor, joining the small pile beside me.

"Please," Emma sobs beside me. "Please stop. They'll know. They'll be so angry."

Another cry filters through the vent – weak, muffled, desperate. A baby's cry. A real child, not a figment of my imagination.

"Emma," I say, my voice shaking as I attack another screw. "How long has she been down there?"

She just cries harder, her small body trembling. "You don't understand. You'll ruin everything. They'll be so mad at me."

The screwdriver slips again, slicing my palm. I barely feel it. "When did they put her down there?" My voice comes out harder than I mean it to. "When was she born?"

"I don’t know,” she whispers, but we both know she’s still lying.

My stomach lurches. I need to get in this fucking basement. A voice in the back of my mind tells me to call the police but I can’t do that right now. Not when I’m so close. Not when she’s right there.

Another screw falls. Ten down. Over half a door to go.

"Please stop it,” Emma cries. “I don’t want to get into trouble!”

My hands freeze on the screwdriver. "Emma, you’re not going to get into trouble. If I find what I think I’m going to find…” My voice trails off as I almost finish with, “your parents are going to be the ones getting in trouble.” But I don’t want to hurt the girl’s feelings. She’s somehow been wrapped up in whatever kind of cruel game they’ve been playing.

But before I can respond to Emma, a sound cuts through her sobs. A car, engine roaring, tires screeching into the driveway.

They're home.

I don’t give a fuck though - I grow more frantic, trying to unscrew more of the screws.

The front door opens and I hear Richard and Caroline rushing toward the den.

I turn slowly, the screwdriver still gripped in my trembling hand. Caroline stands in the doorway, her perfectly maintained appearance shattered – hair wild, makeup smeared, chest heaving. Richard looms behind her, his face twisted with something darker than anger.

"What the hell are you doing?" Caroline's voice shakes.

Then time stops.

The gun appears in her hand like a magic trick, pulled from her designer purse with practiced ease. Black metal gleaming in the dim light. Pointed straight at my chest.

Emma whimpers beside me.

“Caroline!” Richard shouts, clearly surprised that his wife is packing.

But I’m unfazed. I’ve come too far, endured too much to let anything or anyone stop me.

“Step away from the door,” Caroline says, her tone as threatening as the gun she’s holding. “Get the fuck out of my house before I blow your brains out.”

“I don’t give a fuck about you or that gun,” I say, my tone even. “And I’m not leaving this house until I get my daughter out of that basement.”

PART II

Chapter 25

Sariah

Two years ago…

The toddler room is chaos today. Three staff called in sick, and my back has been killing me all morning. Denny won't stop crying, Ava keeps trying to eat crayons, and I just need five minutes to breathe.

"I'm taking my break," I call to Elonda, who's trying to wrangle nap time for the two-year-olds. She barely nods, too busy with a squirming Tyler.

I make it to the staff bathroom just as another pain hits. I've been having these twinges all morning, but this one's different. Sharper. Then I feel it – the rush of warm fluid down my legs.

Oh God.

I waddle back to the classroom, gripping the doorframe as a contraction takes my breath away. "Elonda," I gasp. "I think... I think I'm in labor."

Her eyes go wide. "Now? But we're already short—"

Another contraction cuts through me, harder this time. Closer.

"I need to make sure everyone's covered," I say, even as Elonda looks at me like I'm crazy. "The ratios—"

"Screw the ratios," she says, but I'm already checking the sign-in sheet, making sure every child is accounted for.

"Nicole can move from pre-K," I say through gritted teeth. "And if you call Cathyrn, she said she could—"

"Sariah!" Elonda grabs my arm as I double over. "You're having a baby! April can drive you to the hospital. I'll handle this."

April appears beside me, car keys in hand. She's due back for the afternoon shift – they need her back. They're already so short...

"My phone," I remember suddenly, reaching for my bag. "I need to call—"

But another contraction rips through me, and then April is half-carrying me to her car, and everything becomes a blur of pain and panic and pressure.

It's not until I'm being wheeled into delivery, screaming through another contraction, that I realize my phone is dead. Probably has been dead for hours, since I am notorious for forgetting my charger at work.

I'm alone.

The baby is coming, and I'm completely alone.

"Please," I gasp to the nurse. "I need to call someone—"

But it's too late. My daughter isn't waiting for anyone.

She's coming now.

***

I cradle Brielle against my chest, still trying to process how quickly everything happened. Four hours ago, I was teaching toddlers their ABCs. Now I'm a mother.

My nurse, Gabby, has been amazing – bringing me extra pillows, showing me how to nurse, telling me what a great job I'm doing. But her shift is ending, and I feel panic rising in my chest. My parents are my emergency contact, so the hospital was able to reach them immediately, but the problem was, they were on vacation. Of course, they immediately rushed to the airport but their flight is delayed in Chicago. Brandon still doesn't know since he’s not on my emergency contacts and I don’t remember his number by heart. I'm so tired.

"You're doing beautifully," Gabby says, adjusting Brielle's blanket one last time. "The next nurse will be in soon to check on you."

After she leaves, the room feels emptier. Darker.

The door opens, and a new nurse walks in. Something about her smile seems off – too perfect, too practiced. Her name tag reads, "Caroline."

“How are you today?” she asks, but I’m too exhausted to carry on much conversation.

“I’m fine,” I say, then a memory comes to me. “Were they able to find me a charger? I asked the last nurse for one and she said she would find one for me?”

Caroline’s smile falters slightly. “I wasn’t told that you asked for a charger but let me see if I can find you one, honey.” She takes my phone and goes off in search of one for me.

When she returns sometime later, she’s carrying not just my phone, but a new charger.

“I was able to snag this from the gift shop,” she announces as she plugs it in then places the phone on the table where I can reach it. “Here you go dear. Let me know if you need anything else.”

I force a smile, already focused on my screen and whether there is enough juice in my battery to make a phone call. “Thank you.”

Caroline studies me and Brielle. “Such a beautiful girl,” she says, and when she says it, I get a funny feeling in my gut, but since she’s been nice to me, I let it go.

Caroline exits the room and I can’t wait for my phone to get enough battery to share my baby with the world.

Chapter 26

Sariah

The phone finally has enough charge to turn on. My hands shake as I take a photo of Brielle sleeping in my arms, her tiny face peaceful, perfect. I type out the simplest message I can: "She's here."

The phone rings immediately. Brandon's name flashes on the screen.

"What the hell, Sariah?" His voice cuts through before I can even say hello. "The baby's already here? When were you planning to tell me?"

"My phone died," I try to explain, keeping my voice low so I don't wake Brielle. "Everything happened so fast—"

"Fast? You've been pregnant for nine months! You knew this was coming!"

"I was at work, and my water broke, and—"

"I'm stuck in the middle of a shift," he cuts me off. "We're slammed. I can't just leave."

I swallow hard, fighting back tears. "Can't someone cover you?"

"On a Friday night? Are you crazy?" There's a clash of dishes in the background – he's still in the restaurant kitchen. "I’ll be lucky to get out of here before midnight."

"Midnight?" My voice cracks. "But she's already been here for hours."

"Well, what do you want me to do?" He's shouting now. "You're the one who didn't bother to call me until after she was born!"

Brielle stirs at his voice coming through the speaker. I watch a tear fall onto her blanket.

"I tried," I whisper. "I wanted you here."

"Yeah, well." His voice goes cold. "Clearly not enough."

We sit in silence, breathing back and forth until Brandon finally says, “I’ll try to get away as soon as I can,” and then he hangs up. I feel like scum.

My eyes feel like lead, but I force them open when Caroline enters. The argument with Brandon still burns in my throat.

"Was that your husband?" she asks, checking my vitals with practiced efficiency.

Heat creeps up my neck. "No... he's my boyfriend."

That smile again – gentle but somehow sharp. "It's a shame that so many young women have no support when it comes to something as monumental as giving birth to a child."

I want to defend myself, explain that Brandon will come around, that my parents are fighting through delayed flights to get here. But exhaustion crashes over me like a wave. The whirlwind labor, the stress of the day, the fight with Brandon – it all pulls at me, dragging me down.

"Tired, dear?" Caroline's voice sounds far away.

I try to shake my head, but my body feels so heavy.

"I'll take her for you." Caroline's hands reach for Brielle, professional and sure. "She needs to go to the baby station anyway. You rest."

I watch through half-closed eyes as she lifts my daughter, murmuring something soft I can't quite hear. Brielle looks so tiny in her arms.

"Just... just for a minute," I mumble.

The last thing I see is Caroline carrying Brielle toward the door, my daughter's pink blanket bright against her dark scrubs.

When I jerk awake, the room is darker. Quieter.

"Brielle?" My voice cracks with sleep.

No answer.

The bassinet beside my bed is empty.

I hit the call button. Once. Twice. Three times.

A different nurse appears – not Caroline.

"My baby," I say, panic rising in my chest. "Where's my baby?"

She frowns, checking her charts. "Let me check with the nursery."

When she returns, her face is pale, eyes wide with fear.

"I just spoke with Caroline," she says, voice shaking. "She says she checked your baby into the nursery right after she took her – there's a record of the check-in here." She shows me the chart, Caroline's neat signature at the bottom. "But..." She swallows hard. "No one has seen her since. The nursery staff said they went to do their routine checks, and she wasn't in her bassinet. They thought maybe she'd been brought back to you."

The room starts to spin.

"What do you mean she wasn't there?" My voice sounds far away, strange. "Someone must have seen something."

The nurse is already reaching for the phone. "I'm calling security. We'll check all the cameras, every room. Sometimes babies get mixed up, taken for tests without proper documentation—"

But we both know that's not what happened.

My hands clutch the empty bassinet. My mind flashes to the pink blanket I wrapped Brielle in. The one Caroline carried her away with.

My daughter is gone.

Chapter 27

Sariah

The room is chaos – security guards, nurses, police officers asking me the same questions over and over. My hands shake as I try to describe Brielle's blanket again, the tiny birthmark near her left ear, the way her nose crinkles when she—

The door opens, and Brandon stands there, arms full of pink roses and a stuffed bear nearly as big as his torso. A duffel bag hangs from his shoulder – my overnight bag, the one I never got to pack. His face is soft, apologetic, ready to make amends.

"Sariah, I'm so sorry about earlier. I brought your-" He stops mid-sentence, finally registering the crowd in my room, the tears on my face. The empty bassinet. "What's going on?"

I open my mouth to tell him, but a loud alarm cuts through the air. Red lights start flashing in the hallway.

"CODE PINK. CODE PINK. THE HOSPITAL IS NOW IN LOCKDOWN. ALL EXITS ARE SEALED. CODE PINK."

Brandon's eyes go wide. I've worked in childcare long enough to know he recognizes what that code means: missing infant.

"No," he whispers. The flowers tumble from his arms first, petals scattering across the floor like drops of blood. The bear follows, then the bag, everything hitting the ground with dull thuds. "No, no, no..."

"Mr. Wilson?" A police officer steps forward. "We need to ask you some questions about your daughter."

But Brandon isn't listening. He's staring at me, his face crumpling like paper, like everything he was about to apologize for doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore.

Because our daughter – the one he never got to meet, never got to hold – is gone.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, but the words feel hollow. Empty. Like the bassinet beside my bed. "I'm so sorry."

The alarm keeps blaring, red lights painting everyone's faces in a grotesque glow.

CODE PINK. CODE PINK. CODE PINK.

The security guard moves toward Brandon. "Sir, during a lockdown, we can’t have visitors—"

"Please," I grab the nearest nurse's arm. My voice sounds desperate, foreign. "He's her father. My parents are still on their flight. I can't... I can't do this alone."

They exchange glances, then reluctantly nod. Brandon collapses into the chair beside my bed, his hand finding mine. It's shaking.

"Can you describe any distinguishing features?" The detective's voice drones on. "Birthmarks, unusual characteristics?"

The words swim together. I keep seeing Caroline's smile, feeling the weight of Brielle leaving my arms. Was that the last time I'd ever hold her? The room tilts sideways.

"Wait!" Brandon's voice cuts through the fog. "I have the picture. The one Sariah sent me."

He fumbles with his phone, hands trembling so badly he almost drops it. When he pulls up the photo, a sob catches in his throat.

"Here," he whispers, showing the detective. "This is her. This is our daughter."

I stare at the picture – Brielle's curly hair, her tiny nose, the way her lips purse in her sleep. The image starts to blur, double, triple. My chest feels too tight.

"Ms. Simmons?" Someone's voice sounds far away. "Ms. Simmons, can you hear me?"

But I'm not listening anymore. I'm watching Caroline carry my baby away, over and over and over. The pink blanket keeps getting darker, like blood, like roses scattered on the floor.

"She took her," I hear myself saying. "She took her she took her she took her..."

"Sariah?" Brandon's grip on my hand tightens. "Baby, you're scaring me."

But I can't stop. The words pour out like water, like the moment my water broke at the daycare, like the tears that won't stop falling.

"The nursery the nursery the nursery but she's not there she's gone she's gone she's gone..."

Someone's calling for a doctor. Brandon's face swims in front of mine, terrified.

But all I can see is that empty bassinet, rocking back and forth like a metronome, counting the seconds my daughter's been gone.

Chapter 28

Sariah

The detective's voice drones on, but I can't stop watching Caroline through the window of my room. She's at the nurses' station, calm and professional, answering questions like nothing's wrong. Like she didn't carry my baby away in that pink blanket.

"We're questioning all staff members who were present today," the detective says, but his words blur together. "Including those who've already ended their shifts."

I watch Caroline hand over her badge, her phone number, her address. So helpful. So concerned. Her lips are still perfect, still curved in that same gentle smile that makes my skin crawl now.

"The security footage shows your daughter was properly checked into the nursery at 7:02 PM," another officer says, typing notes. "During the 9 PM check, she was..."

"Gone," I whisper, the word tasting like ash. "She was just... gone."

Brandon's grip on my hand tightens, but I barely feel it. I'm watching Caroline gather her things, preparing to leave. How can they let her leave? How can anyone leave while my daughter is missing?

"Ms. Simmons?" The detective leans forward. "We'll be conducting thorough background checks on all staff members. Reviewing security footage, checking—"

"She's leaving," I interrupt, my voice rising. "She's leaving and she knows where Brielle is, she has to know, she took her, she—"

"Sariah," Brandon tries to calm me, but I'm already trying to get up, to rip out my IV, to stop her from—

"Ms. Simmons, please." The detective's hand is firm on my shoulder. "Nurse Caroline has been fully cooperative. We'll be following up with her and all other staff members who had access to the nursery."

But all I can see is Caroline walking away, her scrubs the same dark blue they were when she carried Brielle out. Was that really only hours ago? It feels like years, like seconds, like a nightmare I can't wake up from.

"She said..." My voice cracks. "She said young mothers need support. She looked at me like... like..."

The words tangle in my throat. Through the window, Caroline disappears around a corner. Gone, like my daughter. Gone, like everything makes sense.

"The footage," I grab the detective's sleeve. "Check the footage. She took her to the nursery, she... she..."

But even as I say it, the room starts to spin. The lights are too bright, then too dark. Everyone's faces blur together until they all look like Caroline, all wearing that same perfect smile.

"I think she needs something to help her calm down," someone says from far away.

"No," I try to say, but my tongue feels heavy. "No, I need to... I need to find..."

The last thing I see is Brandon's terrified face as darkness creeps in from the edges.

Somewhere, my baby is crying.

Or maybe that's just in my head.

***

I stare at the missing person's flyer taped to our refrigerator. Brielle's face – the only photo we have of her, the one Brandon showed police from his phone – is starting to fade from being printed and reprinted so many times.

Three weeks, four days, and seventeen hours.

The detective called again this morning. Same update as always: They've cleared another nurse. Kizzie, the check in nurse and last person to officially see Brielle, was questioned and her alibi was solid, her background clean. Just like everyone else they've investigated. They searched Caroline's house twice. Nothing. They've checked security footage until their eyes bled. Nothing. They've interviewed every person who set foot on that floor. Nothing.

My mother squeezes my shoulder as she sets down another dinner from well-meaning neighbors. "Sariah baby, you should eat something."

But how can I eat when my arms still ache from phantom weight? When my breasts still ache with milk for a baby who isn't here?

Brandon spends every free moment putting up flyers, checking homeless shelters, calling hospitals in other cities. My father's offering a reward now – everything in his retirement fund. But the tips that come in lead nowhere.

"It's impossible," I whisper, touching the flyer. "How can a baby just disappear from a hospital? She was there. She was right there in the nursery. Someone had to see something."

But they didn't. Or if they did, they're not talking.

The investigation is going cold. I can hear it in the detective's voice, see it in the way he avoids my eyes. No suspects. No leads. No evidence.

Just an empty bassinet.

Just a barcode that showed my daughter was there, until suddenly she wasn't.

Just a mother, going crazy with questions that have no answers.

Where is she?

How could she just vanish?

Who took my baby?

But the silence offers no answers, and Brielle's face stares back at me from the flyer, frozen in that one precious moment when she was still mine.

Chapter 29

Sariah

The studio lights are too bright, too hot. The anchorwoman's face is painted with practiced sympathy as she leans forward.

"Ms. Simmons, tell us about your daughter."

I try to remember the talking points the detective gave me. Stay calm. Speak clearly. Appeal to the kidnapper's humanity.

"Brielle is..." My voice cracks. "She's four weeks old now. I never even got to hear her laugh."

"And you're asking anyone with information to come forward?"

"Please." I clutch the photo they're displaying behind us – that one precious image from the hospital. "If you have her, if you know anything... she needs her mother. She needs me."

The anchorwoman nods encouragingly, but something is cracking inside my chest.

"She's just a baby," I continue, my voice rising. "She doesn't know you. She doesn't... she needs..." The lights are getting brighter, spinning like emergency signals. "Give her back. Please, just give her back!"

"Ms. Simmons—"

"I know you're watching!" I'm on my feet now, the microphone wire pulling tight. "You took her from the nursery, you took her and she needs me and I need her and—"

"Maybe we should take a break," the anchorwoman says, but I can't stop.

"Was she crying? Did you hear her crying for me? Did you see how small she was, how perfect?" The words are pouring out like blood. "Please, I know you took her, I know you have my baby—"

Someone's touching my arm. The producer is making cutting motions.

"She was right there!" I'm screaming now, the photo crumpling in my hands. "Right there in the nursery and then she was gone and someone took her and someone knows and give me back my baby!"

"Cut the feed," I hear someone say.

"She's crying somewhere!" My legs give out and I'm on my knees in front of the cameras. "She's crying and she needs me and I can't find her, I can't find her, I can't—"

Brandon appears from somewhere, wrapping his arms around me as I collapse.

"Please," I sob into his shirt. "Please, someone please..."

But the red recording light is already dark, and somewhere in the control room, they're cutting away to commercial.

Just like they're cutting away from the search.

Just like they're cutting away from my baby.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

Chapter 30

Sariah

Pink walls stretch endlessly in every direction. Hospital corridors that never end, never lead anywhere. Brielle's cry echoes from somewhere – everywhere – but I can't find her.

"I'm coming!" I run faster, my hospital gown tangling around my legs. "Mommy's coming!"

Her wails grow more desperate. So close. She has to be close. Around this corner, through this door, behind this curtain—

But there's no one there, just an empty bassinet.

I run back into the hall. The corridors twist, multiply. Pink walls turn red. The floor tilts beneath my feet.

"Brielle!"

Her cry is weaker now. Fading.

No no no.

A nursery appears, filled with rows of bassinets. I check each one – empty, empty, empty. The crying comes from all of them and none of them.

"Please!" I'm sobbing, overturning bassinets, ripping away blankets. "Baby, please!"

The barcodes on the bassinets start bleeding black ink, dripping onto the floor. The announcement echoes through the PA system: "Code Pink. Code Pink. Code Pink."

"Mommy's here!" I scream, but Brielle's cry is getting softer, distant, disappearing—

I jolt awake in my own bed, drenched in sweat, breasts aching with phantom milk. Brandon stirs beside me, reaches for my hand in the dark.

But I'm already crying, the echo of my daughter's wails still ringing in my ears.

Five weeks now.

Five weeks of reaching for a baby who isn't there.

Five weeks of hearing her cry in every silence.

Five weeks of running down endless corridors in my dreams, always too late, always too slow, always too far away to save her.

***

I'm standing in our dark kitchen, gripping the handle of a knife, watching Brandon's shadow move across our living room wall. My heart pounds so hard I can barely breathe.

He's been making phone calls when he thinks I'm sleeping. Leaving the house at strange hours. Coming home smelling like baby powder.

The evidence builds in my fractured mind: He knows where she is. He's been seeing her. Everyone's in on it – Brandon, Caroline, the whole hospital staff. They're all laughing at me, watching me fall apart while they pass my baby around like a secret.

"Sariah?" Brandon's voice makes me jump. He steps into the kitchen and freezes when he sees the knife. "Baby..."

"Where is she?" My voice doesn't sound like mine anymore. "Where are you hiding her?"

"Put the knife down." He raises his hands slowly, but all I see is guilt in his eyes. "You're not thinking clearly."

"I heard you on the phone!" The knife trembles in my grip. "You said 'she's fine' – who were you talking about? Where is my baby?"

"I was talking to your mom." His voice cracks. "About you. She's worried about you. We all are."

"Liar!" I lunge forward, knife raised, but he catches my wrist. The blade clatters to the floor as my legs give out.

"You took her," I sob into his chest as he holds me. "You all took her..."

"I miss her too," he whispers, and I feel his tears dropping onto my hair. "I miss her so much. But Sariah... you need help. We can't keep living like this."

"I just want my baby." The words come out broken, small.

"I know." He rocks me gently, like I rocked Brielle in the hospital before she was ripped away from me. "But you're scaring me. You're scaring yourself. Please... will you talk to someone?"

Through my tears, I see the knife on the floor. See what I almost did. See what I'm becoming.

"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."

Because even through my paranoia, through my broken mind, I know: If I ever want to find Brielle, I have to find myself again first.

But as Brandon helps me up, leads me to bed, I still check his phone when he's not looking.

Just in case.

Just in case I'm right.

Chapter 31

Sariah

I sit in Dr. Edwards's office, watching dust motes dance in the sunlight. Eight weeks of therapy. Eight weeks of forcing myself to breathe, to eat, to stay present when my mind wants to spiral down those dark hospital corridors.

"How are the new medications working?" she asks.

"Better. The nightmares aren't every night now. Maybe three times a week."

She nods encouragingly. We both know why I'm really here, why I keep coming back: For Brielle. Every time I feel myself slipping, I imagine her watching me. Someday – maybe tomorrow, maybe years from now – I'll find her. And when I do, I need to be whole. Need to be her mother, not the broken woman who almost stabbed her father with a kitchen knife.

"I went to the grocery store yesterday," I say. "Made it all the way through without checking every shopping cart for pink blankets."

It's progress. Tiny steps. Like how I can walk past the baby’s room we painted yellow without screaming now. How I deleted the police detective's number from my speed dial. How I stopped calling the hospital every night asking about Caroline's whereabouts.

The meditation exercises help – focusing on my breath instead of the endless what-ifs. The morning walks with Brandon, when the world is quiet and I can almost feel normal. Even the silly breathing app on my phone that makes ocean sounds.

"And you're still writing in your journal?" Dr. Edwards asks.

I nod, touching the locket around my neck that holds Brielle's photo. "Every night. Even when I don't want to. Even when all I can write is 'I miss you.'"

Some days, the only thing keeping me sane is believing my baby girl would want me to fight. Want me to heal. Want me to be strong enough to keep looking for her without losing myself in the search.

"I have to be ready," I whisper. "When she comes home, I have to be ready."

Dr. Edwards doesn't tell me "if" instead of "when" anymore. Doesn't try to make me accept possibilities I'm not ready to face. She just lets me hold onto this hope – this lifeline – while helping me build a foundation underneath it.

Because that's what recovery is: Learning to live in the space between what was lost and what might be found.

Learning to be a mother to a ghost while staying present in the world of the living.

Learning to keep searching without losing myself in the dark.

For Brielle.

Always for Brielle.

***

"Have you thought more about what we discussed last week?" Dr. Edwards asks, her voice gentle but persistent.

I fidget with my locket – six months of therapy and it's still my security blanket. "The online support groups?"

"Yes. There are several private forums for mothers of missing children. Women who understand exactly what you're going through."

My throat tightens. "I don't know if I can... hearing other stories like mine..."

"It might help you feel less alone," she says. "And these women have developed coping strategies, ways to handle anniversaries, holidays..."

The word 'anniversaries' makes my hands shake.

"What if…" I swallow hard. "What if their stories don't have happy endings?"

"Some don't," Dr. Edwards admits. "But many are still searching, still hoping. Like you. And they're learning to live while they search. Like you're learning to do."

I think about my nightly talks with Brandon, the meditation exercises, the journal entries that don't always end in tears now. Progress. But there are still days when I check every stroller I pass, still nights when I wake up screaming.

"Okay," I whisper. "I'll try. But... I might not post anything at first. Maybe just read?"

"That's perfectly fine." She writes down some website addresses. "Take it at your own pace. But remember – these women understand what others can't. They know what it's like to live with this particular kind of hope. And this particular kind of pain."

I take the paper, fold it carefully, tuck it away. Another tiny step forward.

For Brielle.

Always for Brielle.

But maybe this time, for me too.

Chapter 32

Sariah

The cursor blinks on my laptop screen as I scroll through tonight's forum posts. Eighteen months. Eighteen months since I held my daughter. Since I breathed in her newborn scent. Since everything made sense.

A mother posts about her son, missing for twelve years. Another about her daughter, gone for five. Their words blur together – a chorus of loss that echoes my own. Some days the forum helps. Other days, like today, it feels like staring into my future: years of wondering, hoping, slowly drowning in maybes.

I close the laptop, but not before seeing a new post from Maria in Texas. Her baby disappeared from a hospital too. Fifteen years ago. Still nothing.

"You okay?" Brandon asks from the doorway. He knows what these late-night scrolling sessions do to me.

"Yeah." The lie comes easily now. "Just checking in."

The police stopped calling months ago. Detective Rivera sent one last email: "We'll contact you if any new leads develop." But there won't be any leads. I know that now. The other mothers in the forum taught me that bitter truth.

Dr. Edwards says I'm handling it better. And maybe I am. I go to work. I smile at the right moments. I stopped jumping every time I see a toddler with dark curly hair like mine.

But inside, there's this hollow space that grows larger with each passing day. Each milestone I'll never see. First steps. First words. First day of school.

I touch my locket – a habit I can't break. The photo inside is worn now, creased where I've opened and closed it thousands of times. My baby, frozen in time, while time keeps dragging me forward without her.

"She'd be walking now," I whisper, not meaning to say it aloud. "Maybe even running."

Brandon's arms wrap around me from behind, and I let him hold me together. Like he does every night. Like he'll probably do for years to come.

Because that's what I've learned from the forum: This isn't something you get over. It's something you learn to carry. Some days the weight is lighter. Some days it crushes you. But you keep carrying it.

You keep breathing.

You keep hoping.

Even when hope feels like a knife in your heart.

Because somewhere out there, your baby is growing up without you. And you have to stay sane enough, stay whole enough, to recognize her if she ever comes home.

If.

When.

The words blur together now, like everything else.

***

I've stopped checking the forum every night. Then every week. Now, I only log in when the weight of carrying this alone becomes too heavy – which is less and less often. The stories there are like looking into a mirror that shows all possible futures, none of them what I want to see.

Martha's son: missing twenty-three years.

Rachel's twins: twelve years.

Their words of encouragement feel hollow now. Their "stay strong" messages like band-aids on bullet wounds. Every story seems to end the same way – with no ending at all. Just years stretching into decades, hope wearing thinner than the photos they still carry.

Some of the mothers post less and less, like me. Others post more frantically, desperately, as if typing their pain into the void might finally make someone listen. A few stop posting altogether. Those silences speak the loudest.

Tonight, I almost don't log in. Almost leave my laptop closed, almost let myself sink into the numbing routine I've built to keep breathing. Work. Therapy. Pretending. Living.

But something pulls me back. Call it instinct. Call it fate. Call it the ghost of a mother's intuition that never quite dies.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly as I type in my password.

I tell myself it's just one quick look. Just a moment to remind myself I'm not alone.

I don't expect to find answers.

I don't expect to find her.

I don't expect to find anything at all.

But then I see the post. The photo. The face in the background.

And everything changes.

A woman named Jessica posts about her missing baby, Jasmine, from seven years ago. It’s not the photo of Jasmine that makes me pause. It’s the figure looming in the background of the photo.

The world stops spinning as I stare at it, my finger trembling over the pixelated face as I zoom all the way in. Time stretches, contracts, freezes entirely.

Caroline.

The same perfect smile. The same calculating eyes. The same face that's haunted my nightmares for two years, now staring back at me from seven years in the past. From a different woman. A different state. Behind a different baby who vanished.

My chest constricts as the details in the post swim before my eyes. New York. Summer. Young mother.

My story.

Jasmine's story.

How many others?

The room tilts sideways as my mind races backward, replaying every moment with Caroline. Her words echo in my head with new meaning: "It's a shame that so many young mothers have no support..." She wasn't just making conversation. She was hunting.

Blood rushes in my ears as I zoom in again, trying to steady my shaking hands. The image blurs but I don't need clarity – I know that face.

The hollow space inside me fills with something molten, something alive. All these months of doubt, of wondering if I was crazy, of trying to convince myself I was wrong about her...

But I wasn't wrong.

I was never wrong.

And somewhere in the darkness of my bedroom, with only the glow of my laptop illuminating the truth I've finally found, everything changes.

Because Caroline didn't just take my baby.

She's done this before.

Chapter 33

Sariah

The detective's voicemail is full again. Two weeks of leaving messages, each one more desperate than the last. Two weeks of being told they're "looking into it." Two weeks of staring at that photo of Caroline – proof I'm not crazy, proof she's done this before – sit untouched in their inbox.

I pace our living room, phone clutched to my chest. "Detective Rivera, it's Sariah Simmons. Again. Please... this is evidence. This connects her to another missing baby. Seven years ago in New York… It’s the same pattern. Why aren't you—"

The voicemail cuts me off.

My hands shake as I pull up the email I sent them – the screenshot, the hospital name, the mother's story that mirrors mine so perfectly it makes me sick.

I check the forum obsessively now, but the mother who posted the photo hasn't logged back in. Her username – JasminesMommie001 – haunts me. Another mother, another lost baby, another trail gone cold.

My fingers hover over the detective's number again.

What's the point? They'll just let it ring.

Like they let my baby vanish.

Like they let Jasmine vanish.

Like they're letting the truth vanish.

I look at the photo again, at Caroline's face behind Jasmine, and something inside me hardens.

If they won't look for answers, I'll find them myself.

***

Another few days pass and the police are still dodging me. I can feel my mind going back to a very dark place. But I can’t go there, if I want to find Brielle.

Snatching up my phone, I make a new call.

To the reporter I interviewed with on the news, the one who said she wouldn’t stop helping me look for my daughter.

She answers and tries to engage in small talk but I cut her off, explaining what I’ve found.

"Ms. Simmons," the reporter's voice is careful, controlled – the tone people use when they think I might break. "I remember your story, of course, but..."

"I have evidence," I cut in, gripping my phone tighter. "A photo. Another missing baby, same nurse, different state. The police won't help me—"

"Your previous interview was..." she pauses delicately. "Difficult."

The memory of that day burns – me screaming into the camera, collapsing on set, becoming another viral moment of a mother's breakdown. But I'm not that person anymore. I'm not crazy.

"I know how it looked," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. "But this is different. This is real. Caroline – the nurse who took Brielle – she did this before. Seven years ago in New York. I have proof."

"And you've shown this to the police?"

"They won't call me back. Two weeks of silence. Please, if you just look at the photo—"

"Ms. Simmons," she interrupts softly. "I understand you're still grieving—"

"This isn't grief!" My voice cracks. "This is evidence. This could help find my daughter. Other daughters. Please."

The silence stretches so long I think she's hung up.

"I'll talk to my boss," she finally says, but her tone tells me everything. She doesn't believe me. Just like the police don't believe me. Just like no one ever believes me.

"Thank you," I whisper, but she's already ending the call.

I stare at my phone, at the photo I tried to send her – Caroline's face haunting another nursery, another family, another life destroyed.

They're not going to help.

They never were.

Later that night, I watch the pathetic thirty-second segment that the local news posts on my behalf, pausing on Brielle's photo. The same one they've been showing for two years. The only one I have. Below it, they post the same useless hotline number that's never brought us closer to answers.

"If you have any information..." the anchor drones, her voice carrying none of the urgency I'd pleaded with her to understand this morning.

I told her everything – about Caroline, about Jasmine, about the pattern emerging from the shadows. But all she'd said was, "I'll talk to my boss," and then they ran this 30-second clip like that was going to do anything to help me.

My fingers trace the mother’s name from Jasmine's post. New York. A starting point. I need to find records. Employee files. Someone there must remember Caroline.

I close my eyes, feeling the weight of my locket against my chest. For two years, I've done everything right. Followed the rules. Waited for others to find answers.

But Brielle can't wait anymore.

Jasmine couldn't wait.

And I'm done waiting.

Chapter 34

Sariah

My mind is spinning in circles, I feel so crazy. But I’m not giving up the fight.

"Look at her face, Brandon." I thrust my laptop toward him, the photo of Caroline enlarged. "It's her. The same woman who took our daughter."

Brandon rubs his temples, that familiar worried crease between his eyes. "Sariah, the police said—"

"The police aren't doing anything!" My voice rises. "Two weeks. Two weeks they've had this evidence, and nothing. Not even a phone call."

"They're investigating—"

"No, they're not!" I slam the laptop shut. "They've given up. Just like they gave up before. But this proves it wasn't random. Caroline's done this before."

He looks at me the way he used to during those first dark months – like I'm made of glass, like I might shatter any moment. "Baby, please. Let's call Dr. Edwards."

"Don't." My voice breaks. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not crazy. Not this time." I pull up the photo again. "Don't you want to find our daughter?"

The words hit him like I intended. His face crumples, and I hate myself for using his pain against him, but I can't stop.

"I found her address," I whisper. "We could drive up there, watch the house. See if..." My voice catches. "See if Brielle's there."

"Stake them out?" Brandon's eyes widen. "Like, stalk them?"

"Yes."

"No." He stands up, shaking his head. "No, Sariah. I'm not doing that. Just let the police do their jobs. They will let us know if they find anything."

"They won't find anything because they're not looking!" I grab his arm. "Please, Brandon. Please. Our baby could be in that house right now. Right now, while we're standing here doing nothing."

"This isn't nothing. This is being rational. Being safe." He pulls away gently. "I can't watch you go down this road again. I can't."

The distance between us stretches like a chasm. He's slipping away, just like everyone else. Just like the police, the reporters, all the people who should be helping us find our daughter.

"Fine," I whisper. "I'll do it myself."

"Sariah—"

But I'm already walking away, my mind racing ahead to Chesterfield, to Caroline's house in a city right next to ours, to answers nobody else seems to want to find.

I'll do it alone if I have to.

I'll find her alone if I have to.

I'll save our daughter alone if I have to.

Because somebody has to.

Chapter 35

Sariah

One last time.

I step into the police station, professionally dressed, well put together so they can’t cast me off like they’ve been doing. I approach the front desk and ask to speak with Detective Rivera.

The woman gives me a leery look once I give her my name, but she purses her lips and calls him using the landline phone on her desk.

They hold a brief conversation, then she hangs up and faces me with a strained smile.

“Ms. Simmons, Detective Rivera is out at the moment but he should be here in a half an hour.” She gestures toward an empty bench off to the side of the waiting area. “You can sit there until he comes.”

Wordlessly, I stride over and sit.

The half hour moves at a glacial pace. I keep checking my phone, but only a minute is passing between each time I check.

I need a distraction, so I do the only thing that’s given me a sense of comfort since I saw that photo a couple weeks ago: stalk Caroline’s online activity. There isn’t much out there about her – she doesn’t have social media, which in my mind is a red flag, but no one listens to me. I did find her address but that was by doing an internet search of her name + the state we lived in.

My body relaxes as I begin another search, and then I see something that makes my breath hitch.

My thumbs freeze over the keypad. The post is from three days ago: "Experienced babysitter needed in Chesterfield area. July 7-14. Seven-year-old girl. References required."

I wasn’t expecting to find this when I went down the rabbit hole trying to find more information on Caroline, but I did.

The more I stare at the listing, the more I think I’ve got her.

Their daughter is seven years old.

Like Jasmine would be.

The username is different, but the contact email contains Caroline's first and last name. My screen blurs as I read the details again and again. A "babymoon" for their seven year old child. A sweet seven-year-old who "loves art and reading."

My heart pounds so hard I can barely breathe. The timeline fits. Everything fits.

And now Caroline's having another baby. Planning a "babymoon." The word tastes like acid in my mouth as I remember our brief conversation two years ago, the day she took Brielle.

The same pattern.

The same hunt.

The same predator, circling new prey.

I save everything – screenshots, addresses, dates. Evidence the police won't look at. Truth they won't see.

My screen dims, and I look at the clock, realizing that I’ve been sitting on this bench for forty-five minutes, piecing together the puzzle nobody else will solve.

I approach the desk again, giving them one last chance before I pull back and do things my way.

“Excuse me,” I say to the woman, mustering a smile that probably looks more like a grimace.

She stares at me.

“Any word from Detective Rivera?”

Her lips form a thin line. “Sorry honey,” she says. “Give it another half hour.”

The decision is made. “That’s okay,” I say in a breezy voice, and I’m almost relieved as I say it. “Please have him call me when he gets a chance, but I have to go.”

She nods and I exit the police station, making a beeline for my car. I know what I have to do.

I don't need Brandon.

I don't need the police.

I don’t need anyone else’s assistance.

I just need this job in Chesterfield.

I fill out the application for the babysitting ad and click Send.

***

Hours later, when Brandon gets home from work, I’ve just finished cooking our dinner.

His eyes widen in surprise as he sees my upbeat demeanor.

“What’s going on?” he asks, suspicion in his tone.

I slide my phone across the kitchen counter toward him. "They want to interview me tomorrow. On Zoom."

“Who wants to interview you?” he says, his tone laced with confusion.

I don’t answer.

He picks up the phone, scanning the email with growing alarm. "You actually applied? Are you crazy?"

I texted Brandon about the application as soon as I got to my car outside the police station, but of course, he urged me to wait on Detective Rivera. I was no longer waiting though. If he didn’t want to help me find my baby, I would find her myself. I filled out the application directly after reading Brandon’s text.

"I used Jerraya," I say quickly. "Not Sariah. They don't know it's me." Jerraya is my first name; Sariah is my middle name.

Brandon is clearly taken aback. “But… But… Sariah…” He’s at a loss for words.

“We’re going to find her, baby,” I encourage, covering his hand with mine.

He pulls it back, still not convinced. “But the name Jerraya Simmons was on your hospital records. They will probably know it’s you.”

“Obviously they didn’t if they emailed me for an interview,” I clap back, not liking the way he’s chipping at my confidence. Why is he fighting so hard against me when we’re so close? “Plus, they barely called me by my first name at that hospital anyway. They just called me pet names like “Mommy” or “Sweetie”.”

Brandon’s still not convinced. His face darkens as he scrolls through the babysitting ad. "They said this job is for a seven-year-old."

"Exactly."

He stares at me. "But they don't mention a two-year-old, Sariah."

The confidence I've been building all morning wavers, just for a moment. He's right – there's no mention of a toddler. No sign of Brielle. But the other pieces fit too perfectly to be a coincidence.

"I know they took our baby, Brandon." My voice comes out smaller than I meant it to. "Can you just help me with this? It's only for a week."

Silence falls between us and I can tell Brandon is fighting for words to say.

“I already requested that week off from my job,” I offer.

He still doesn’t respond – probably really thinks I’m crazy now, because who would do such a thing?

But I need his support on this.

“Come on,” I press, willing for him to work with me.

His eyes narrow. "How exactly do you expect me to help you, Sariah?"

I take a breath, trying to sound casual. "Doesn't your cousin do really good makeup?"

"What?" The impatience in his voice makes me flinch.

"She can contour my face, Brandon. Then I can put on some contacts and a different colored wig..." I trail off as I watch his expression shift from confusion to that familiar worried look – the one that says he thinks I'm losing my grip again.

Something inside me snaps.

"I need to see if they have my fucking baby, okay!" The words explode out of me, echoing off the kitchen walls. Brandon steps back, hurt flashing across his face.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with two years of pain and desperation. Finally, he sighs.

"Okay," he says, but his voice is thick with reluctance.

I turn away so he can't see my face. He's only agreeing because he thinks I'll never get the job. Because he thinks this will all fall apart before it begins.

But he's wrong.

They all are.

Because tomorrow, I'm going to look Caroline in the eye – through a computer screen, through my disguise, through all her lies – and I'm going to charm my way into that house.

And I'm going to find my daughter.

Chapter 36

Sariah

My fingers twitch against the smooth surface of my desk as I adjust the wig one final time. Honey blonde color, shoulder-length, carefully styled by Brandon's cousin to look natural. The green contacts itch, but they've transformed my dark eyes completely. Contouring makeup has sharpened my cheekbones, thinned my nose, changed the whole architecture of my face.

A stranger stares back at me from my laptop screen. Jerraya Simmons. Daycare teacher. Loving with children. Available immediately.

Not Sariah. Not a grieving mother. Not a woman desperate to find her stolen child.

The Zoom link glows blue against my screen. Two minutes until the interview.

"You can do this," I whisper to my reflection. I've rehearsed my answers a hundred times. Practiced my smile until it felt real. Crafted a whole life story that's just true enough to be believable.

One minute.

I click the link.

The loading circle spins, each rotation sending my heart rate higher. What if they see through me? Although I talked big shit to Brandon when he mentioned my name being on my hospital records, what if they somehow figure out it’s me? The nurses did call me pet names at the hospital, but most of the staff also called me Sariah, the name I usually go by. Should using the name Jerraya on the babysitter application be enough? What if Caroline recognizes something – a gesture, a word, something I haven't thought to disguise?

The window flickers before I can talk myself out of it and exit the screen.

And there they are.

The Rodwell’s smile into their camera, the afternoon sun streaming through what must be their living room window. Caroline sits close to a man with kind eyes and graying temples – her husband? The monster's husband? – his arm draped casually around her shoulders.

My stomach lurches at the sight of her. Two years haven't changed her face. That same gentle smile. Those calculating eyes.

"Hi!" Caroline's voice is warm, exactly as I remember it. "You must be Jerraya. We're so excited to meet you!"

I force my lips into a smile, praying she can't hear how hard my heart is pounding.

"The pleasure is all mine," I hear myself say in a voice that sounds impossibly calm.

The performance of my life begins.

"So, Jerraya," Caroline leans forward, her smile warm and practiced. "Tell us about your experience with children."

I slip into my rehearsed response about teaching at a daycare, about loving the way children see the world. My voice stays steady even as my heart hammers against my ribs. Even as I watch the woman who stole my baby nodding along like she's never destroyed a life.

"That's wonderful, Jerraya," Richard says. "And you're comfortable with overnight stays?"

"Of course," I say, forcing myself not to stare at Caroline's face, searching for guilt, for recognition, for anything.

"Well, Jerraya," Caroline continues, "we'd love to hear about—"

"You can call me Sariah."

The words escape before I can catch them. They hang in the air between us, impossible to take back.

My real name.

My truth.

The key that could unlock everything I've planned.

Why the fuck did I just do that?

I was so close.

So fucking close.

Time stops. My eyes blur with tears and my blood turns to ice. Why did I say that? Two years of searching, of hoping – all of it could unravel because I couldn't hold onto a fake name for one conversation.

I watch Caroline's face, waiting for the moment of recognition. For her smile to fade. For her eyes to widen. For everything to fall apart.

But she just keeps smiling. "Sariah it is," Richard says warmly, and the moment passes like it never happened.

Like my name means nothing to her.

Like I mean nothing to her.

Like she doesn't remember the mother whose life she destroyed.

The rest of the interview passes in a blur. I hear myself answering questions about experience, about childcare philosophy, about availability. My mouth moves automatically while my mind screams: She didn't recognize me. She didn't recognize me. She didn't recognize me.

"Well," Caroline says finally, beaming at her husband. "I think we've found our sitter."

"We'd love to have you watch Emma while we're away," Richard adds.

Emma.

Not Jasmine.

My confidence wanes once again, but something within me says I should continue. Maybe they changed Jasmine’s name. Of course they did - that would be a no-brainer.

"I'd be honored," I hear myself say, my voice steady despite the earthquake in my chest.

They give me the dates – next Monday through Sunday. The address – the house I've already memorized. The details about Emma – seven years old, loves art and reading, just like the ad said.

"Thank you so much," Caroline says, her hand resting on her humongous belly. "It's so hard finding someone we can trust with our baby girl."

Trust.

With Emma.

The words taste like ashes in my mouth.

The screen goes dark as the call ends, and I stare at my reflection – at this stranger I've become, at the disguise that worked too well, at the mother who's finally found a way in.

Seven days.

Starting Monday.

With Emma.

But where's Brielle?

The question echoes in my skull as I pull off the wig with trembling hands. I got the job. I'll be in their house. But my daughter isn't there – at least not officially. What if I'm wrong? What if this is just another dead end?

No.

I know that face.

I know what she did.

And now I have seven days to prove it.

PART III

Chapter 37

Sariah

Present day…

The barrel of Caroline's gun trembles slightly, but her aim stays fixed on my chest. Strange, how clearly I can focus on these small details even now – the way her manicured finger curves around the trigger, Emma's small hand clutching my shirt.

"What did you just say?" Caroline's cinnamon-colored face transforms, that perfect mask cracking to reveal something wild underneath. Something that recognizes me at last.

"You heard me." I keep my voice steady, though my heart threatens to burst. Emma's whimpers cut through the tension like knife strokes, but I can't comfort her. Not yet. Not until I know. "You have my baby in that basement and I'm not leaving here without her."

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with two years of searching, of sleepless nights, of emptiness. Two years of Caroline living her perfect life while my daughter is somewhere behind a locked door.

"Mommy?" Emma's voice quavers. "What's happening?"

Caroline's eyes dart to her daughter – her stolen daughter? – then back to me. The gun wavers again, but her face hardens into something terrible.

"You're insane," she whispers, but there's fear beneath the venom. "There's nothing in my basement except—"

"Except what, Caroline?" My voice rises despite my efforts to contain it. "Except my daughter? Because I know she’s down there. I heard her crying for me." The words tear from my throat, raw and angry. Two years of pain crystallizing into this moment.

Caroline's expression darkens, a shadow passing over her perfect features. "If anybody's down there crying, it's for me honey, not you."

My head tilts to the side as I process her slip. "So you're admitting you left my two-year-old child down in a locked basement for a week? That's going to be a hell of an explanation for the police."

"Sariah—" Richard steps forward, his chestnut-colored skin turning pale, but Caroline cuts him off.

"The police will never find out about this." The gun makes a sharp click as she cocks it.

But I'm beyond fear now. Beyond everything except the truth that's finally unraveling. "What are you gonna do, Caroline? Shoot me in front of Emma?" I pause, watching her face. "Or should I say, Jasmine."

Caroline's sharp gasp fills the room. Emma – Jasmine – tugs at my shirt again. "Who's Jasmine, Mommy?"

"Shut the fuck up!" Caroline screams, her composure shattering completely. The gun shakes violently in her hand. "How dare you stand there telling bold-faced lies to my child right in my face?"

"She's not your child, Caroline." My voice cuts through her rage like a blade. "Just like Brielle's not yours either."

The truth hangs between us like smoke, choking and thick. Emma's – Jasmine's – small fingers dig into my side as she presses closer, seeking protection from this woman she thought she knew. This woman who stole her, just like she stole my baby.

And somewhere below our feet, in that dark basement, my daughter is waiting.

I just have to stay alive long enough to reach her.

Chapter 38

Sariah

Emma trembles beside me, her seven-year-old mind struggling to make sense of a world that's crumbling around her. "Mommy, what is she talking about? Who is Jasmine? And who is Brielle?"

My heart aches for this child – another victim of Caroline's madness. But Caroline's eyes only grow colder, more calculated beneath her cracking facade.

"Don't listen to her, baby." Her voice drips honey even as the gun stays trained on my chest. "Come here," she gestures with her free hand. "Come here to Mommy."

"She's not your Mommy." The words come out harsher than I meant them to, but Emma doesn't move. I can see the conflict in her young face – fear warring with something deeper. Something that recognizes truth when she hears it.

"I told you to shut the fuck up!" Caroline's screech echoes off the walls, her nostrils flaring like a cornered animal. The perfect suburban mother is gone, replaced by something feral and desperate.

"Baby." Richard steps forward again, hands raised. "Put the gun down, honey. You're scaring Emma; can't you see that?"

"I'm not putting shit down, Richard!" Her voice rises even higher, hysteria creeping in at the edges. "Can't you see this little Black bitch trying to brainwash my baby against me?"

I reel as if I’ve been slapped. “Little Black bitch?” I repeat. “Bitch, don’t you realize you’re Black too?” Then it hits me – Richard and Caroline. Not that Black people can’t have those names – but going from Jasmine to Emma? From Brielle to whatever the fuck they renamed my baby?

Emma presses closer to my side, and I feel her small body shaking. Somewhere beneath our feet, Brielle is waiting. My baby is waiting. But right now, there's another little girl who needs protection – from the only mother she's ever known.

The woman with the gun who stole them both.

"Is this why you told me to do all that stuff?" Emma's trembling voice pierces the tension. Each word falls like a stone into still water, rippling outward with devastating consequences.

Caroline's perfect mask slips completely. "Wh-What are you talking about baby? You don't know what you're saying." But the tremor in her voice betrays her.

"You told me to stay inside and keep watching Ms. Sariah." Emma's words tumble out faster now, like she can't hold them back anymore. "You said to make sure she stays out of the den when I told you she went in the drawer."

The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. Every strange moment this week – Emma appearing suddenly in doorways, her odd behaviors, the way she never wanted to play outside, how she always seemed to be watching. It wasn't demon possession or my imagination running wild.

It was Caroline.

Always Caroline.

Manipulating her stolen daughter into becoming her spy.

I almost laugh at the absurdity of it all – how I questioned my own sanity when the real madness was so much simpler. So much crueler.

I step forward, positioning myself between Emma and the gun. Between this child and the monster who's been pulling her strings. "You really are a piece of work," I spit, fury burning away any remaining fear.

This woman didn't just steal children.

She twisted them.

Used them.

Made them accomplices in their own captivity.

And now she's going to pay for all of it.

Chapter 39

Sariah

The room goes still, Caroline's words hanging in the air like poison. Richard's face drains of color as he realizes what his wife has become – or maybe what she's always been.

"Come on honey," he pleads again, his voice gentle as if soothing a wild animal. "We have to think this through. This woman has figured out what's going on and we have to find a way to reach an agreement."

For a moment, Caroline seems to listen. Then her face twists. "Agreement?" The word comes out as a bark of laughter. "I'm not agreeing to shit when it comes to her."

"Give me my daughter and I'll be out of your hair." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. We all know I won't just walk away – not after what they've done.

"I'm not giving you shit!" Caroline's voice rises, hysteria bleeding through every word. "I raised that baby - she's mine!"

I see it then, in her wild eyes – the delusion that's driven her all these years. In her twisted mind, these children really are hers. She's rewritten reality to make herself the mother, to justify every horrific thing she's done.

My heart softens for just a moment, seeing the broken woman beneath the monster. But then I think of Brielle, alone in that basement, and my compassion hardens again.

"Baby," Richard tries once more, desperation creeping into his voice. "We have to reach an agreement. The police are..."

"I already told you the police won't find out!" Caroline's voice turns to ice, and something shifts in the air. Something dangerous.

"Do you think she won't tell them?" Richard asks quietly.

Caroline's lips curl into a smile that chills my blood. "She can't tell them anything if she's not breathing."

Emma whimpers beside me, and I pull her closer. Because I see it now – the moment Caroline crossed a line she can't uncross. The moment this stopped being about negotiation.

The moment she decided that I had to die.

"Baby, come on." Richard's voice trembles, and I see real fear in his eyes for the first time. Not just for Emma, but for what his wife is implying. "You know I'm not going to let you do that."

Caroline doesn't even look at him. The gun stays trained on my chest, her finger steady on the trigger. "I don't need you to let me do anything, Richard. I'm the one with the gun, remember?"

It happens so fast.

Richard launches himself at Caroline, his large frame colliding with her smaller one. They slam against the wall, both grappling for control of the weapon. I scream as the gun swings wildly between them, Caroline's face contorted with rage, Richard's with desperate determination.

In the chaos, I feel Emma pull away from me. My head whips around just in time to see her small fingers flying over the keypad beside the basement door – the door I'd spent almost an hour trying to loosen. Four numbers. A beep. She wrenches it open with strength I didn't know she had and disappears down the dark stairs.

My heart leaps – the basement. My baby. Finally.

I turn to follow, one foot already moving toward the stairs, toward Brielle—

Then a gunshot rings through the air. I stop cold and turn around.

Chapter 40

Sariah

My jaw drops in shock as I take in the sight before me.

Richard crumples to the floor like a marionette with cut strings, blood blooming across his chest. His eyes are wide with shock – or maybe betrayal – as he stares up at his wife. The woman he tried to save us from.

The woman who just shot him.

"You think I'm fucking playing with you?" Caroline's voice is eerily calm now, the gun steady in her hands as she aims it at my heart. Blood – her husband's blood – spatters her perfect beige sundress, her baby bump prominent and unnatural in this horrid turn of events.

Behind me, I hear Emma's crying and screaming somewhere in the basement. My daughter is down there. Both our daughters are down there now. But one wrong move and I'll never reach them.

Richard makes a wet, choking sound on the floor. His blood spreads across the hardwood in a growing pool, seeping into the cracks between the boards. He tried to help us. He tried to stop her.

And now he's dying for it.

"Caroline," I say, keeping my voice level despite the terror clawing at my throat. Despite every instinct screaming at me to run down those stairs after Emma. "Think about what you're doing. You just shot your husband."

"He got in my way." Her words are ice. Her eyes are death. "Just like you're getting in my way."

The gun doesn't waver.

Richard's breathing grows weaker.

And somewhere below us, two little girls are alone in the dark.

I have to make a choice.

Right now.

Before Caroline makes it for me.

"Please." I raise my hands, showing surrender, though every fiber of my being screams to run down those stairs. "I just want my daughter, no more, no less."

Caroline's words hit me like a slap. "Like I already told you: Chloe is mine, and so is Emma." At first I’m thrown for a loop at the name Chloe, but then it hits me: Chloe. She renamed my baby too, just like I thought.

"How could you do this to another woman?" My voice breaks. "How could you rip my baby away from me?"

Caroline's face twists with contempt. "Don't come at me with that bullshit. You young ghetto hussies don't know the first thing about raising a baby. All you do is suck up all the resources, sit on your asses in front of reality TV, and stay on welfare and EBT, while people like me fight tooth and nail to give a child a good home."

"That's not true." Bile rises in my throat. "You have no idea what I’ve…"

"Do you even know who the baby's daddy is?” She lets out a rough chuckle. “Oh yeah, you did at least have that part. I heard you arguing with him at the hospital. Are you two even still together?"

And there it is. The ugly truth beneath her perfect suburban facade. She targeted me because she looked down on me. She thought I was alone. Vulnerable. Because of how I look, where I live, what she assumed about my life.

"I see young mothers just like you every single day." Her words drip venom. "Can't keep your legs closed to save your life, yet here you are, popping out babies that you can't take care of. If you ask me, Sariah, I did you a favor."

Something snaps inside me. "Look, I'm not going to stand here and keep going back and forth with your old bitter, wannabe Karen ass. Give me my motherfucking daughter, or I will burn this house to the ground."

Caroline giggles – a high, unhinged sound. "Let's see you try that."

Then we both freeze.

Sirens.

Richard has stopped moving. His blood spreads across the floor between us, and Caroline's eyes go wild with desperation. Because now there's no going back. No perfect lies to hide behind.

And we both know it.

Chapter 41

Sariah

I make a split decision.

The basement swallows me in fluorescent light as I leap down the stairs, Caroline's scream of "No!" echoing behind me, along with a bullet that sinks itself into the doorframe. But nothing – not two years of imagining, not my worst nightmares – could have prepared me for what I find.

It's a mockery of an apartment. A dollhouse prison with cheerful yellow walls and scattered toys. A kitchenette with plates stacked neatly in a dish rack. A TV playing some children's show on mute. Everything carefully arranged to create the illusion of normalcy.

But it's the corner that stops my heart.

Three children.

Not two.

Three.

They huddle together like frightened animals, the oldest protectively wrapped around the smaller ones. Emma – Jasmine – is there, arms around... my God, is that Brielle? But the older girl stares at me with huge brown eyes.

It hits me: Angie. This is Angie, the one from the folder, the owner of the purple bike.

My mouth opens – to scream, to cry, to say something, anything – but Caroline slams into me from behind. We crash to the floor, the impact driving the air from my lungs. As we grapple on the cold concrete, I hear the children's terrified whimpers.

Three children.

Three stolen babies.

Three devastated families.

And one monster who thought she could play mother with other women's children.

I'm on my back, Caroline's weight crushing me as she claws at my face, all pretense of civilization gone. She's nothing but animal fury now, her perfect mask completely shattered. Somewhere above us, wood splinters – the police breaking down the door – but we're locked in our own brutal dance.

My youth gives me an edge against her rage. I grab the nearest object – a bright red toy truck – and crack it against her temple. She reels back, momentarily stunned, giving me the leverage I need. I shove hard, sending her sprawling.

That's when I see it.

Her pregnant belly – the one she’d been rubbing continuously – has shifted grotesquely to her knees. The round curve I envied is nothing but padding, bunched and misshapen from our fight.

"What the fuck?" Horror crawls up my throat as I realize what this means. What she was planning on that so-called “babymoon”. Another baby. Another family to destroy.

"Everybody, freeze!"

The basement floods with uniformed officers, guns drawn, flashlight beams cutting through the artificial cheerfulness of this underground nightmare. Behind them, I hear the children crying, three different pitches of fear harmonizing in the chaos.

But all I can see is Caroline's fake belly, the final piece of her sick puzzle falling into place.

She wasn't just stealing children.

She was hunting for her next victim.

And I almost helped her accomplish her goal by watching Emma for the week.

Chapter 42

Sariah

When I frantically point at Caroline and explain what happened, the officers take one look at the fake baby bump and believe me.

Caroline thrashes against the officers like a woman possessed, her sundress torn and bloody, her false pregnancy padding hanging pathetically around her ankles. "My babies!" she shrieks, her voice raw and inhuman. "Don’t you touch my babies!"

But they're not her babies. Never were.

I watch them drag her up the stairs, her perfect French manicure broken and bleeding from our fight, her highlights matted with sweat. She keeps screaming, keeps fighting, right until they disappear through the doorway. Even then, I can hear her howls echoing from above.

The basement feels suddenly quiet, despite the chaos of police radios and gentle voices trying to coax the children from their corner. My legs give out and I sink to my knees on the concrete floor, my body shaking with adrenaline and relief and horror.

Three children.

She stole three children.

And was hunting for a fourth.

I look over at the huddled group. Brielle – my baby, my heart – stares back at me with eyes that don't quite recognize me. She's not the infant I lost anymore. She's grown. Changed. Just like the older girl beside her, just like Emma-who-was-Jasmine.

Caroline didn't just steal their bodies.

She stole years we can never get back.

Memories we should have made together.

And somewhere out there, a third family has been searching, just like I have.

Wondering.

Hoping.

Never giving up.

The nightmare is over, but the healing? That's barely even started.

I clutch Brielle closer as we emerge from that underground prison, her small body trembling against mine. She feels both familiar and foreign – my baby, but not my baby. Two years of growth I'll never get back.

"Daddy!" The synchronized scream from Emma – Jasmine – and the other little girl (Angie? Is that her real name?) pierces my heart as they watch Richard being wheeled out. Despite everything, he was the only father they knew. He tried to stop Caroline in the end. Paid for it with his own blood.

"Is he going to be okay?" I ask the EMT, though I'm not sure why I care after what he helped enable.

"We don't know, Ma'am." They rush him past us, oxygen mask fogging with each shallow breath.

That's when I see him – Detective Rivera, standing among the other officers like he's been here all along. Questions swirl in my mind: How did he know? When did he figure it out? Was he watching us this whole time?

But before I can voice any of them, he steps forward, his face grave. "Ms. Simmons, we're going to need you to answer some questions."

“Why are you here?” I ask, clutching my daughter tighter like they are going to rip her away from me at any second.

He gives me a stern look. “I have been investigating the evidence you sent me, as I told you. We were on our way here with a search warrant when we got the call about the gunshots.”

I reel at the harshness of his words as he continues.

“You being here was very dangerous, Sariah,” he says. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I…” I’m at a loss for words.

His tone and expression soften. “Like I said, I was investigating the lead you sent me. I had to do some deep digging and was able to find that the woman in the photo was indeed Caroline and that she was indeed working at that hospital in New York the day Jasmine was born.”

“But why didn’t y’all find that in the first place!” I blurt, then feel ashamed, like I’m speaking out of line.

Detective Rivera responds with patience. “Unfortunately, companies don’t always keep detailed records. Mrs. Rodwell’s worked with several agencies over the past decade or so. We had to use multiple avenues to narrow the information down, which was why it took so long. Plus…” He pauses, then closes his mouth like he’s realized he said too much.

Now I feel like a fool. But at the same time, I don’t, because what if someone else applied for this job and something bad happened to my baby?”

I hold her even closer.

“Are you going to tell me what you are doing here?” he asks, taking a more delicate tone.

I sigh and let it out, starting from that day I came to see him at the police station and saw the babysitting position.

He takes notes in a notepad as I’m speaking, then when I finish, he gives me another stern look.

“Ms. Simmons, I understand that you were desperate to find your daughter, but this situation could have been a hell of a lot worse with you taking matters into your own hands.”

We stare at each other for a while before he says, “We’ll need you to give a much more detailed statement at the precinct.”

I look down at Brielle, still clinging to me like she's afraid I'll disappear. Then at the other two children, their world shattered in an instant.

Detective Rivera's expression softens again as paramedics approach us. "Ms. Simmons, we need to get all three children to the hospital for evaluation."

My arms tighten instinctively around Brielle. "No. I just got her back. I can't…"

"Ma'am," a female paramedic steps forward, her voice gentle but firm. "We need to make sure the children are healthy, document their condition, and run some tests. Including DNA verification. It's for their protection, and yours."

Brielle burrows deeper into my chest. After two years of searching, the thought of letting her go – even for necessary medical care – feels impossible. But I force myself to think rationally through my panic. They need to prove she's mine. They need to make sure Caroline didn't hurt her. They need to build their case.

"Can I go with her?" My voice cracks.

"You can ride in the ambulance," the paramedic says, "but once we reach the hospital, we'll need to examine her alone. It won't take long."

I look over at the other two children, already being guided toward a second ambulance. Emma – no, Jasmine – keeps looking back at me, her eyes wide and frightened. All three of them have lived through something I can't even imagine.

"Okay," I whisper, kissing Brielle's forehead. "Baby, these nice people need to make sure you're okay. But Mommy's not leaving you. I promise. Never again."

She whimpers as the paramedic gently takes her, and the sound nearly breaks me. But I force myself to stand strong, to show her there's nothing to fear.

Even though everything in me screams to snatch her back and run.

I ride in the ambulance as they said I can, but as we travel, I can’t help but to wonder how the hell all this happened.

PART IV

Chapter 43

Caroline

Thirteen years ago…

I stare at the plastic stick on our marble bathroom counter, willing that second line to appear. Just one more line. That's all I need. But minutes tick by, and the result stays stubbornly, cruelly singular.

Not pregnant.

Again.

Richard's hand finds my shoulder, his touch gentle but weighted with shared disappointment. "Baby, it's okay. We'll keep trying."

I shrug him off, angry tears burning my eyes. "Keep trying? That's all we've been doing for three years, Richard. Three years of trying and tracking and timing everything perfectly, and what do we have to show for it? Nothing."

The bathroom suddenly feels too small, too pristine. Everything in this house is perfect – the crown molding, the heated tile floors, the his-and-hers sinks with their gleaming fixtures. Perfect and empty.

"The doctor said my sperm count is improving," he offers quietly, but we both know it's not enough. Not when every other woman I know seems to get pregnant by merely thinking about it.

I grab the stick and hurl it into the trash with the others. Thirty-seven months of negative tests. Thirty-seven months of failure. My hands grip the counter's edge until my knuckles go numb.

"Caroline..." Richard starts, but I cut him off.

"I have to get ready for work." My voice is tight, controlled. A nurse can't be late, after all. Can't let anyone see the cracks in my perfect facade. I’ve been doing it for years, traveling to different cities and states, helping babies being born, and enjoying every moment. Until the enjoyment stopped.

He hesitates, then leaves me alone with my reflection. I stare at myself in the mirror – my carefully highlighted hair, my expensive skincare routine, my designer scrubs. Everything about me screams 'ready for motherhood.' So why? Why does every irresponsible teenager in my maternity ward get blessed with what I can't have?

I smooth my expression, fix my lipstick. Time to go watch more undeserving women receive the miracle I'm denied.

But something inside me is shifting, hardening. I can feel it.

If God won't give me a baby...

Maybe I need to take matters into my own hands.

I glance backward, wondering what Richard would say if he knows what I’m thinking. But I can’t tell him that. At least not now.

Chapter 44

Caroline

Twelve years ago…

I slump in my car outside the hospital, the latest IVF cycle burning a hole in our savings. The doctors can't explain it. Everything should work. But my body is rejecting what I want most.

Through the windshield, I watch them come and go. Young mothers, barely more than children themselves, waddling into the maternity ward in their cheap leggings and flip-flops. Some of them don't even look old enough to drive.

A girl who can't be more than nineteen struggles past my car, her massive belly straining against a tight tank top. Three other small children trail behind her like ducklings, dirty-faced and wild-haired. I hear her yelling at them in Spanish.

My hands clench the steering wheel. She probably didn't even try. Probably doesn't even know which deadbeat got her pregnant this time. Meanwhile, I've spent enough on fertility treatments to buy a new car.

Inside, it's worse. I check the charts of my patients – fifteen, sixteen years old. Fourth pregnancy. No prenatal care. Positive for marijuana. Father unknown. They lay there scrolling on their phones, collecting welfare, while I measure their vitals with hands that ache to hold a child of my own.

"Girl, this my sixth one," one of them brags to her friend in the next bed. "They gonna have to tie me up after this!"

I grip my pen so hard it nearly snaps. Six babies. Six precious miracles she treats like public housing tokens. While my perfect nursery at home sits empty.

These children deserve better. They deserve a mother who can give them everything. A proper education. A safe neighborhood. Two parents in a stable marriage.

They deserve someone like me.

A new patient catches my eye – young, alone, obviously on something. Her baby girl is perfect despite everything the mother did wrong. I watch them through my shift, something dark and desperate taking root in my mind.

Sometimes God works in mysterious ways.

Sometimes he shows you exactly what you need to do.

Sometimes he puts the answer right in front of you.

I straighten my scrubs, check my makeup in the bathroom mirror. A proper mother always looks presentable.

These ghetto girls don't deserve what they've been given.

But I do.

And one day real soon, I'll prove it.

Chapter 45

Caroline

Eleven years ago…

I sit in our parked car outside the adoption agency, the rejection letter crumpled in my fist. They said we don’t qualify, all because Richard tried to protect two students from killing each other. All because he did his job.

"Baby, I'm so sorry." His voice cracks. He's been apologizing since we got the news, like he can somehow erase that day. "Maybe... maybe if we got divorced, you could—"

"Stop." The word comes out sharp enough to make him flinch. "We're not discussing that."

I close my eyes, remembering the adoption counselor's practiced sympathy: "Unfortunately, with Mr. Rodwell's record of child endangerment..." As if my Richard, who broke up a fight and got punished for it, is somehow dangerous. Even though the security footage proved he followed protocol. Even though the charges were dismissed. Even though he was protecting those kids. Those kids whose own parents barely gave a half a damn about them.

The cruel irony makes me want to scream. My husband can't adopt because he tried to keep children safe, while the junkies and teenagers in my maternity ward pop out babies with no questions asked.

"We could try another agency," Richard suggests weakly. "Maybe in another state..."

"They all do the same background checks." My voice sounds distant, detached. "They all see the same arrest record."

Through the windshield, I watch a young mother struggle past our car with a baby carrier, heading into the agency. Probably giving up her mistake because she's too young, too poor, too irresponsible to handle the gift she's been given. Meanwhile, they deny us because Richard dared to step between two fighting teenagers.

The unfairness of it all burns in my chest like acid.

Richard reaches for my hand. "We'll figure something out, Caroline. I promise."

But I barely hear him. My mind is already working, calculating, planning. If the system is this broken, this unjust...

Maybe it's time to stop playing by their rules.

Maybe it's time to take what's rightfully mine.

Maybe God is showing me there's another way.

I squeeze Richard's hand, but my eyes follow the young mother as she disappears into the building.

There are so many unwanted babies in the world.

So many unfit mothers.

So many opportunities for someone like me to do what needs to be done.

Chapter 46

Caroline

Ten years ago…

The time has come.

Richard and I have been waiting for this moment and it’s finally arrived.

I call his phone before I can second-guess my actions. This is the perfect opportunity. We must act now. "Come to the hospital. Pull up to the employee entrance. It's urgent." My voice shakes with barely contained excitement.

Richard sounds uneasy at my strange request. “Employee entrance? Caroline, what’s…”

“Just come!” I snap, then hang up the phone.

I’m still in my hideout, but there’s not much time. He has to come quickly if this will work.

Seconds later, my phone pings with a text and my lips curve into a smile. Richard is on his way.

The conversation with the electrical technicians this morning was a godsend. “Excuse me ma’am,” one of them had asked. “Can you show me to your breaker room? We need to check the security cameras.”

“Security cameras?” I repeated, my insides tingling.

“Yes ma’am,” he said. “The cameras in the nursery keeps going out ever since the blackouts from the storm. Must be a tripped wire somewhere.”

When he said those words, it was like the Good Lord was whispering in my ear that He had given me a golden opportunity. My time was here. My time was now.

I spoke casually with the techs as they entered the breaker room, not letting on that I wanted answers for a reason but playing it like I was concerned about the children’s wellbeing.

I did bring newborns to the nursery frequently, of course. It would be terrible if something bad happened.

But today, nothing bad is happening. This is divine intervention, nothing short of a miracle. I know it. I feel it. And Richard will know and feel it too.

I pace the empty room, my scrubs damp with sweat, cradling the perfect little bundle. Tiara. That's what her mother named her – the mother who's been nodding off all day, track marks barely hidden by her sleeves. The mother who didn't even notice when I said I needed to run some tests.

“Angie,” I decide, and the name rolls off my lips like butter. Angie is a much more suitable name. Angela Rodwell. Perfect for a job application or resume. That ghetto name Tiara wouldn’t get a second glance. Right up there with Watermelondrea, if you ask me.

Richard arrives less than ten minutes later. He’s followed my directions to pull up directly to the door. I hurry out of the room, looking left and right before I exit the Employee entrance door, then rush Angie out into his waiting arms.

"Caroline, what the fuck is this?" Richard’s whisper is harsh, panicked. His eyes dart to the door, the windows, anywhere but the sleeping infant he’s now holding.

"She needs us," I say, hurrying to get him to understand. "Her mother's an addict. She'll never pass the drug tests. They'll put her in the system."

"Baby, no. We can't—"

"We can." My voice breaks. "We have to. Look at her, Richard. Look at her."

He does. I see the moment his resistance crumbles. Because she is perfect. Tiny fingers, rosebud mouth, skin like caramel silk. Everything we've been praying for.

"Take her to the car," I whisper. "I'll handle everything else."

Richard’s eyes are still wide with fear. “But the cameras…”

“They’re broken,” I say, urging him to hurry. “I confirmed it this morning.”

His hands shake as he continues to hold her, and I see the fear in his eyes. The knowledge that this moment changes everything. But he cradles her close, protecting her already.

"Go," I urge. "Now."

He turns, this good man who would never harm a child, now stealing one. For me. For us.

I watch them disappear down the street, my heart racing. There's so much to do. Records to alter. Stories to create. A nursery waiting at home to finally be filled.

But first, I have to go tell a drugged-out teenager that her baby didn't make it.

Sometimes being a good mother means making hard choices.

Sometimes salvation requires sacrifice.

Sometimes love means breaking all the rules.

I straighten my scrubs, check my makeup, and prepare to deliver the news that will give my baby a better life.

Chapter 47

Caroline

Eight years ago…

I watch Angie coloring at the kitchen table, her little tongue poking out in concentration. She's drawing our family – three stick figures holding hands under a yellow sun. Perfect. Everything is perfect.

The move from Atlanta to New York was worth it. The careful scrubbing of our old life, the fabricated birth certificate, the story about our miracle baby after years of trying – it all worked. Our neighbors here adore her. Richard's new job thinks she's the most precious thing they've ever seen. Even my new hospital colleagues, though they are ever-changing, coo over her photos.

I remember those first terrifying months, watching the news reports about the missing baby in Atlanta. My heart would stop every time someone mentioned a lead, but they never came close. How could they? I'd planned everything perfectly. The timing of my contract’s end date, the strategic move north.

Thank God neither Richard nor I live close to our families, so it was easy to convince them about Angie as well.

“We didn’t want to tell anyone in case the pregnancy didn’t last,” I lied effortlessly, and they soaked up every word.

Richard was a wreck at first, jumping at every police siren. But even he can't deny how right this is now. How could anyone say she doesn't belong with us when she's thriving? When she's so loved, so cherished, so perfectly cared for?

"Mommy, look!" Angie holds up her drawing. "That's you and me and Daddy!"

"It's beautiful, angel." I kiss her forehead, breathing in her sweet scent. My miracle. My baby.

Sometimes I think about her birth mother – the track marks, the glazed eyes, the life my Angie would have had. I did the right thing. I saved her.

And soon...

Soon I'll save another one.

Because one perfect child isn't enough.

My heart has so much more love to give.

I glance at the nursing schedule on my phone. There's a new mother in the maternity ward where I’m working now. Young. Alone. Struggling.

Sometimes God shows you the path.

Sometimes he sends you another miracle.

Sometimes he trusts you to do what needs to be done.

***

Almost a year later, I stand in the doorway, watching Angie show her new sister how to hold a crayon. Emma's tiny hand wrapped in Angie's slightly bigger one, both of them giggling. The sight makes my heart ache with a fullness I never thought possible.

My mind flashes to the difficulty of saving Emma, since the hospital this time around was much more strict. It took careful planning, but we made it happen and now another lost child has been given a proper home.

Richard was harder to convince this time too, and it took a lot of coaxing for him to give in. "We got lucky once," he'd whispered late one night, after Angie was asleep. "We can't push our luck."

But then Angie started asking Santa for a baby sister. Started pointing at babies in strollers and saying, "I want one, Mommy." Even Richard couldn't resist when she'd curl up in his lap and ask, "Daddy, why can't I have a sister like Jenny next door?"

It was harder this time. More security cameras. More alert staff. But fifteen years of nursing gave me the knowledge I needed. I knew exactly which doors didn't lock properly, which cameras had blind spots, which shifts were understaffed. I timed it perfectly, and I almost got her, even signed Richard up as a maintenance worker at the hospital under a fake ID, but when the time came, we lost the opportunity. Right when I was about to save Emma, someone came. They would have seen me. They would have known.

At first, I thought the opportunity was lost. I cried myself to sleep, but the next morning, the Lord whispered in my ears once again.

It wasn’t difficult to track the mother down.

She was discharged from the hospital after three days. I watched, labored, waited, knowing that sooner or later, she would leave my baby in danger.

It didn’t take long for her to confirm my suspicions.

Emma’s mother walked out of the duplex, looking left and right before hurrying to the corner store. Probably going to buy some sodium-filled, unhealthy food like she’d eaten in the hospital.

Now was my time. I already knew from her time at the hospital that she lived with a roommate – her parents disowned her because of her young age and her roommate was barely home. She was leaving my child in danger by going to that store. It didn’t matter that it was right at the top of the street. It didn’t matter that she would probably be back in ten minutes. It didn’t matter that she’d done the same thing yesterday, and the day before. I’d been watching. Waiting. Calculating. And now, everything was aligned.

I crept up to the apartment like I belonged there. No ring cameras – I already checked.

She locked the door at least, but I’d already prepared for this. Quickly picking the lock, I sucked my teeth at how pathetically easy it was. She left my child unattended. Any random predator could come and take her. Slowly closing the door behind me, I followed the sound of the relaxing harp music.

It was playing in one of the bedrooms, which contained a twin-sized bed and bassinet where my daughter lay. I stared down at her tiny, beautiful face, almost transfixed before I realized I didn’t have much time. Reaching for her, I caught a glint of gold around her neck. I froze. They put a gold chain around a baby’s neck? Hot anger coursed my veins. She could have been strangled. Quickly and urgently, I unhooked the preposterous piece of metal, then gently lifted her tiny body, holding her against my chest.

She didn’t stir.

Time to go.

Creeping back toward the front door, I slowly opened it and looked both ways, just like Emma’s former mother had done before she left my baby in danger.

Coast was clear.

I hurried to my vehicle, strapped Emma into the car seat, and drove off, turning the corner just as Emma’s former mother was exiting the corner store to go back to the duplex. She would encounter quite the surprise when she got home, but it was all for the best. She clearly wasn’t capable of keeping her safe.

***

When I brought Emma home, Angie's eyes lit up like Christmas morning. "My sister!" she'd squealed, and any doubts I had melted away. Richard's too – I saw it in his face as he watched them together.

"Mommy, Emma drew a flower!" Angie's voice pulls me back to the present. The "flower" is really just scribbles, but Angie praises it like it's a masterpiece. Such a good big sister.

We had to move again after we brought Emma home, of course. Opposite end of the country this time, to a quiet suburb of California. New birth certificate, new story for our families about a private adoption. It's worth it, watching them together. Two perfect daughters. Two lives saved.

"They look so natural together," Richard murmurs, coming up behind me. His arms wrap around my waist, and I lean back against him. "Like they were always meant to be sisters."

"They were," I whisper. Because it's true. These girls were meant to be mine. Meant to be ours. Meant to be together.

Sometimes God's plan isn't what you expect.

Sometimes you have to help it along.

Sometimes—

"Mommy, can we have a baby brother next?"

Richard's arms tighten around me.

But I'm already thinking.

Already planning.

Because my heart still has room to grow.

Chapter 48

Caroline

Two years ago…

I knew it was wrong the moment I did it. Not the taking – never that. But the rushed planning. The desperate timing. The split-second decision to grab a different baby than the one we'd prepared for.

Tommy was perfect. I watched his mother for weeks – another addict, track marks down her arms, nodding off during feedings, baby needing all kinds of treatments to stay alive. Everything was set. The timing worked with my contract at that hospital about to end. Then Tommy needed emergency surgery for a heart defect they found during routine testing on the day I planned to take him home. It was too risky – despite all our planning, we wouldn’t be able to take Tommy without being caught.

But Richard had already prepared the nursery. Blue walls, sports-themed border, tiny baseball mitt on the dresser. Angie and Emma talked endlessly about their baby brother. I couldn't disappoint them. Couldn't go home empty-handed. Not again.

That's when I saw her. Brielle. Born the same day as Tommy. Her mother was young, exhausted, no family around. But she loved that baby. I saw it in the way she counted fingers and toes, the way she smiled through her exhaustion. Not like the others who didn't deserve their gifts.

The twisting in my gut should have been a warning.

"Chloe fits in so well," Richard says now, watching our three girls play tea party. But I see the question in his eyes sometimes. The doubt. He knows this one was different. Rushed. Unplanned.

Angie, eight now, pours imaginary tea for her sisters. Emma, five, giggles and pretends to sip. And Brielle – no, Chloe – she fits right in, mimicking everything her big sisters do. They're perfect together. They belong together.

But sometimes at night, I remember that mother's love. Her devotion. The look in her eyes when she realized her baby was missing.

The police looked harder this time. Searched longer. Put up more posters. I catch myself checking the news more often, jumping when the doorbell rings, though I know they’ll never find her.

We unfortunately had to sedate her, but I gave her the lowest possible dosage as we let her sleep in the hidden compartment in our basement.

"Mommy, play with us!" Angie calls, holding out a tiny teacup.

I push down the guilt. Focus on my girls. My family.

But something feels different now.

Something feels wrong.

Something feels like it's slipping away.

And deep down, I know what it is.

I made a mistake.

I chose the wrong baby.

And someday, that mistake might cost me everything.

Epilogue

Richard

The fluorescent lights in the hospital room make my bandaged chest look even more sickly. Two detectives hover over my bed - Johnston and Rivera according to their badges. They've been here since I opened my eyes, waiting like vultures.

"Mr. Rodwell," Johnston says, checking his notes. "It’s time to start talking.”

I stare at the ceiling. My chest burns where the bullet went in. Where my own wife shot me in cold blood. One chance encounter. One split second. Everything unraveled.

"Three children," Rivera cuts in. "Three sets of falsified documents. Three families destroyed. You're looking at multiple felony charges, Mr. Rodwell. Kidnapping. False documentation. Conspiracy."

My throat feels like sandpaper. "I’ve done nothing wrong."

"Your wife's already talking." Johnston leans closer. "Caroline's given us everything. The hospitals, the dates, the names. She's trying to make a deal."

My heart monitor spikes. Caroline wouldn't. But... that last one. Brielle. Chloe. It changed her. Changed us.

"If you cooperate now," Rivera says softly, "tell us everything, help these families get closure... the DA might be willing to work with you. Otherwise, you're looking at 25 to life. Per child."

I close my eyes. See Angie's gangly frame. Emma's gap-toothed smile. Chloe's first steps. My girls. My daughters.

"They were loved," I whisper, my voice breaking. "They were so loved."

"That doesn't make it right," Johnston says.

"No." The word tastes like ash in my mouth. "But it made it easier to pretend it was."

The detectives lean forward, pens ready. And I begin to talk.

Because Caroline was right about one thing:

Sometimes being a good parent means making hard choices.

Sometimes love means breaking all the rules.

And sometimes... sometimes it means facing the consequences when those rules break you instead.

"Caroline..." I swallow hard, fighting the nausea. "She plans everything. Always has. She'd research hospitals, find ones with outdated security systems, understaffed night shifts. Places where traveling nurses wouldn't draw attention."

Rivera nods encouragingly while Johnston scribbles notes. The morphine drip beside me beeps steadily, but it can't dull the sick feeling in my gut.

"She times her contracts for summer. July, August – when regular staff take vacations. When things get chaotic. She watches, learns the patterns. Picks her..." I can't say victims. Not yet. "...picks the mothers carefully. Young ones. Alone ones. Usually first-time mothers who don't have family hovering around."

My hands start shaking. "With Angie – the first one – she waited until the mother was coming down from a high. Made sure no one would question when she said the baby needed tests."

The bile rises again. I grab for the bedpan, but nothing comes up.

I quickly tell them Emma’s story, how Caroline was going to take her from the hospital but instead stole her from her mother’s apartment, then move to Brielle.

"Chloe," Johnston corrects, his voice hard. "You renamed Sariah’s daughter Chloe."

"Brielle," I insist, because I owe that mother at least this truth. "She wasn't like the others. Her mother wanted her. Loved her. But we'd already set everything up, expecting a different baby. A boy.” My voice grows hollow as it finally hits me, the role I played in enabling Caroline’s behaviors. “When that fell through, Caroline... she just..."

"How did you handle the documentation?" Rivera asks.

"Caroline had connections. People who could create birth certificates, social security numbers. We'd move right after, start fresh in a new city. I'd find work wherever I could, and she'd get another nursing contract with a new company. We spaced them out perfectly so we wouldn’t raise suspicion."

My voice breaks. "They don't know. Our girls – we’re the only parents they’ve ever known. Please, they can't find out like this. They're innocent in all of this. They're just children."

"Children who were stolen," Johnston reminds me sharply. “And besides,” he adds, “It’s a little late to hide information. We’re actively seeking the biological parents of Jasmine and Angie as we speak.”

“Tiara,” I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Come again?” Rivera says sharply, a glint of annoyance in his eyes.

“Angie’s real name was Tiara. Before we changed it.”

Rivera’s lips form a thin line. “Ten years is a long time for a child to be ripped from their mother, Richard.”

"I know." The words come out in a sob. "God help me, I know. We told ourselves we were saving them. Giving them better lives. But Brielle's mother…" My voice trails off.

Rivera leans forward. "Help us make this right, Mr. Rodwell. Tell us everything."

So I do. Every detail.

Every lie we told ourselves to sleep at night.

Every truth we buried beneath our love.

And with each word, I feel my daughters slipping away. 

Caroline

"Mrs. Rodwell," Rivera begins, settling into the metal chair across from me.

I stare at the two-way mirror, imagining who's watching. My back straight, hands folded neatly on the table. A mother's posture. A nurse's composure.

"It's time to talk."

I huff, leaning back. "I'm not telling you a motherfucking thing. That little Black bitch broke in my house, just like I said, and she tried to take my baby."

Rivera's lips curve into a satisfied smile that makes my skin crawl. "Sure about that? Because your husband told us everything already."

Something flickers in my chest – doubt, fear – but I push it down. "You're bluffing."

Johnston cuts in, flipping open his notepad with deliberate slowness. "Oh really? So you didn't lock ten-year-old Angie, or should I say, Tiara, down in a fully-furnished basement to force her to watch two-year-old Brielle for a whole week?"

My breath catches. The basement. Our secret. The one where we set up everything, kept the children safe for our babymoon. The one that held the secret compartment where we hid Brielle when the police came knocking.

Now it’s all been crumbled.

Johnston continues, each word a knife. "And you didn't force Richard to go along with locking the children in the basement after you grew paranoid from seeing Brielle's baby picture on the news last week?"

The room tilts sideways. Richard. My Richard. The man who held my hand through three stolen pregnancies. Who painted nurseries and built dollhouses and kissed scraped knees.

Richard told them.

Richard betrayed us.

Richard betrayed me.

My mind goes back to that argument we had, where he insisted we were making the wrong move.

“Caroline,” he had said. “You saw Chloe’s picture on the news. It’s too risky.”

I shook my head. “No it’s not, Richard. We’ve done this three times, remember. We got this, baby.”

He tensed. “I don’t like the idea of locking Angie and Chloe down there. What if something happens?”

I shook my head before he finished talking. “They’ll be fine. Angie is mature for a ten-year-old, and she knows how to change diapers.”

“What if one of them gets hurt or sick?”

He almost had me at that part, but we were too close to give up now. “Look, I want my baby!” I thundered, my nostrils flaring. “I’ve been wearing this belly for nine months. Perfectly orchestrating a pregnancy by making it bigger over time and now you want me to look like a fool?”

“But Emma…” Richard’s pleas fell on deaf ears.

“I already told you, Emma will be upstairs with the babysitter! No one will know what’s happening. It’s only a week, then we’ll finally have our baby boy.”

I rubbed my belly for emphasis and Richard finally gave in, like he always did.

But this time, Richard has flipped on me.

I can see it in Johnston and Rivera’s eyes – they aren’t bluffing. He did tell on me.

My perfect mask cracks, and underneath, something dark begins to rise.

If he wants to play this game...

If he wants to destroy our family...

Then maybe it's time to show them exactly what kind of mother I can be.

My lips curve into a smile that makes Rivera's fade. "Actually," I say softly, "I do have something to tell you. About Richard. About what he made me do."

Because if my family's going to burn...

We're all going down in flames.

Rivera and Johnston share a look before they focus on me. “We’re listening,” Rivera says, and I know I have them right where I want them.

"Richard?" I lean forward, letting tears fill my eyes. "He made me take Brielle. I didn't want to – she was the first mother who truly loved her baby. But my husband... he was obsessed with having three children. Said it wouldn't look natural to stop at two."

I watch Johnston's pen pause. Plant the seeds of doubt.

"When Tommy, the boy Richard begged me for, needed surgery, Richard became desperate. Unhinged. He threatened to turn me in for Angie and Emma if I didn't bring home another baby. Said he had evidence that would prove I acted alone."

My voice breaks perfectly. Years of practice lying to police officers pays off.

"The basement idea, for our fourth child? That was him. He wanted his son so bad. I tried to stop him, but he said we could train Angie to take care of Chloe. Emphasized that it would only be a week. Called it 'conditioning.'"

Rivera and Johnston exchange glances. I press harder.

“Richard built the secret compartment in the basement where we hid Chloe. Richard has construction experience - check his records. He’s the one who forced me to do all this. I…” My voice falters, and I almost believe my own act. “I just wanted to be a mother. But with Richard’s years of emotional abuse, I… Something cracked within me.”

The lies taste like honey on my tongue.

I’m almost afraid to look in the detective’s eyes, but when I do, I can see they are buying my tear-filled story.

Of course, none of it’s true, except the fact that Richard did build the secret compartment in the basement, but they’ll never have to know.

Sariah

The social worker's office feels too small, too bright. My hands won't stop shaking. After working my way into the Rodwell’s lives as a babysitter, after seeing my baby locked in that dark basement, after all the pain and agony that came with her disappearance… we finally have her back.

The DNA results sit on the desk between us. 99.9% match. My baby. My Brielle.

"She's very withdrawn," the social worker says gently. "The trauma from the basement incident... she'll need extensive therapy. But she's young enough that with proper support, she can heal."

Brandon squeezes my hand, still in disbelief that I solved my own child’s kidnapping case. "We'll get her the best care. Whatever she needs."

The door opens, and there she is. My two-year-old baby. Dark curly hair like mine, Brandon's eyes, wearing clothes I didn't pick out. She clings to the child psychologist's leg, thumb firmly in her mouth, eyes wide and fearful.

"Hi, sweet girl," I whisper, kneeling down but keeping my distance. The psychologist warned us not to rush her, not to overwhelm her. After what that woman did to her, keeping her in the dark, forcing a ten-year-old to care for her and a seven-year-old to help keep her hidden...

Brielle whimpers and hides her face.

"It's okay," I murmur, my heart breaking. "Remember me? From the house?"

She peeks out, recognition flickering in those beautiful eyes.

Brandon kneels beside me, moving slowly. "We're going to take care of you, princess. No more dark basement. No more being scared."

The psychologist gently encourages her forward. When she's close enough, I hold out a trembling hand. She reaches for it hesitantly, fingers curling around mine in a gesture so sweet, my heart weeps.

Then she takes one stumbling step forward and falls into my arms.

I hold her, rocking gently, breathing in her scent beneath the unfamiliar shampoo. My baby. My Brielle. Home at last.

"We still have your crib," Brandon whispers, his voice thick. "But we’ll have to get you a bigger bed now."

Brielle doesn't respond with words – she's too young, too traumatized for that. But she burrows deeper into my arms, and I feel her tiny body slowly relax.

***

I sit in the courtroom day after day, Brandon's hand steady in mine, watching the people who stole our daughter destroy each other.

Caroline sits rigid in her designer suit, eyes burning with hatred every time Richard takes the stand. The perfect mother mask has cracked, revealing the monster beneath. She spits accusations like venom – claims Richard masterminded everything, says he forced her, portrays herself as a victim.

Richard, frail and still recovering from the gunshot wound, throws his own poison. Tells them about Caroline's methodical planning, her obsession with creating the perfect family, how she threatened to frame him if he ever spoke up. His lawyer paints him as a weak man dominated by a manipulative wife.

They drain their bank accounts hiring expensive attorneys. File motion after motion. Each trying to push more blame on the other, each claiming they were coerced, controlled, afraid.

But in the end, the jury saw the truth: they worked together to keep their stolen children hidden from the rest of society. We were shown pictures of the basement where they locked my baby. Richard and Caroline had it fully furnished, equipped with a refrigerator and microwave, food, clothes, pampers, wipes, and a fully functional bathroom. When I saw that secret compartment they put Brielle in while the police searched their house right after she was taken, I almost had to leave the courtroom. I wanted to lunge across the rows of seats and murder that bitch with my bare hands.

One question that lingered in the back of my mind was how they got away with this three times. Then we learned that Caroline worked at multiple different traveling nurse agencies and all of them didn’t keep perfect records. She took Angie from a hospital in Atlanta that had faulty camera footage. She stole Emma from her mother’s apartment. And she got away with it every time. What made it harder to detect her was that most of the hospitals she worked at, she completed her contracts without incident. None of her coworkers ever suspected her, and her record was spotless. The thought of it all made my skin curl.

***

When the verdicts finally come down, both Richard and Caroline were found guilty on all counts, twenty-five years to life for each child. Neither of them looked at the other. Caroline screamed about appeals as they led her away. Richard slumped in defeat, finally meeting my eyes with something like remorse.

But remorse couldn't erase two years of terror for us, much less a decade for Tiara’s family, and seven years for Jasmine’s.

Remorse couldn't heal my baby's trauma.

Couldn't give back the time they stole.

Brandon and I left them to their bitter ending, their mutual destruction, their separate cells where they would have decades to blame each other.

My family was waiting at home.

My daughter was healing.

And that was the only justice that mattered now.

***

The aftermath is almost as traumatic as having my daughter stolen. Three stolen babies, three different endings.

My Brielle is home, learning to trust again, her night terrors slowly fading. Each small smile, each tiny step toward healing feels like a victory.

Jasmine – who they called Emma – is back with her mother. The girl they dismissed as too young, too incapable, proved them all wrong. She finished high school while searching for her baby, never gave up hope. She was shocked as hell when she learned that I was the catalyst to her finding her daughter. I had never reached out to her when I saw that photo she shared with Caroline in the background. At first, I didn’t know why I didn’t reach out to her, but now I reason that it was because something inside me was still afraid. I knew Caroline and Richard had my baby, but at the same time I was afraid of being wrong about my suspicions. But thankfully, I was right, and now she and Jasmine are building the bond that was stolen from them.

But Tiara... my heart breaks for her most of all. The little girl they renamed Angie, who spent ten years believing Caroline and Richard's lies, who tried so hard to be the perfect big sister, who endured the basement to protect Brielle. Tiara’s mother lost her battle with addiction two years ago, still believing her baby died shortly after birth. The police only found out about their DNA connection through her mother’s criminal history. Now Tiara's with her grandparents, dealing not only with the trauma of her kidnapping but the knowledge that her real mother died never knowing she was alive.

The therapist says all three girls will need years of support. That being stolen, renamed, raised on lies – it leaves scars that run deep. That Tiara especially, being the oldest, will have the hardest journey ahead.

Sometimes I see her grandmother in the online support group threads. When she goes Live in the group, I see the weight of it all in her eyes – the loss of her daughter, the recovery of her granddaughter, the complex tangle of grief and joy and pain.

"She asks about the other girls," she told me, through a message in my DMs. "Misses being their big sister, even though she knows now it was all built on lies. How do you explain that kind of loss to a child?"

Three stolen babies.

Three shattered families.

Three different paths to healing.

And in their prison cells, Caroline and Richard serve time for destroying all of them.

I didn’t know what to say to her at first, but then an idea was born: these girls knew each other as sisters. Why not find a way to still allow them to be in each other’s lives? I explained my idea to Tiara’s grandmother at first, and she eagerly agreed. Then we reached out to Jasmine’s mother, Alicia, and she agreed too.

We made a pact that each girl would know her sisters and keep in touch as they all grew up. So far, this effort has been paying off tremendously for each girl’s healing.

Regardless of the evil Caroline and Richard did, they can't destroy what we're rebuilding now.

Can't break the bonds we're mending.

Can't stop our children from finding their way home.

Even if home isn't what any of us expected it to be.

The End

I hope you enjoyed The Babysitter. I must admit, I went through quite the ordeal crafting this book. At first, I had a whole different storyline, but the subject matter became too triggering for me, so I had to set it aside and begin this story. Then, this story also had some triggering elements but just in an entirely different way. It deals with some sensitive themes, and I hope that all who read it and may have dealt with some of the issues the characters dealt with are able to get any help or support that they may need.

I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed piecing it together. What are your thoughts? I would love to hear from you. Share them in your review!

Want to read more from this series? Check out The Neighbor: A Psychological Thriller

Sometimes the friendliest smiles can hold the deadliest secrets...

Until next time,

Tanisha Stewart

Before you go…

If you enjoyed The Babysitter, I would absolutely love to hear your feedback. Please leave a rating or review commenting on your overall thoughts.

In addition, if you would like access to exclusive updates, giveaways, and more, join my email list at tanishastewartauthor.com/contact.

God bless you, and happy reading!

Tanisha Stewart

PS: If you would like to connect with me on social media, here’s where you can find me:

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Every Voice Ain’t From God: A Christian Romance Thriller

A psychological thriller with jaw-dropping twists and turns, and characters whose antics will leave you speechless… A story about love gone right, then wrong.

Zakari has known Nicole was the one since high school. He prays about whether their relationship is meant to be and receives confirmation one night during a church service. Zakari and Nicole are getting married!

Until she breaks up with him the next day.

Zakari plunges into a pit of despair, then Nicole reaches out and tells him they can be friends, maybe rekindle their relationship after college? Elated, Zakari agrees and bides his time until he and Nicole can be together again.

But Nicole gets engaged to another man, and Zakari doesn't understand.

He and Nicole are meant to be - she just needs to see it.

And her fiancé needs to be eliminated.

Every Voice Ain’t From God is a twisted and page-turning tale about a man who will stop at nothing to have his woman’s heart. Including murder.

Check it out here: Every Voice Ain’t From God: A Christian Romance Thriller

Messed With The Wrong One: An Urban Romance Thriller

We all do things we live to regret, but when you harm the wrong ones, you get what you get.

Junior cheated. Marlena is furious. She resolves to teach him a lesson. What starts as a simple act of revenge, however, quickly takes a dangerous turn.

While Marlena was busy getting back at Junior, someone else happened to be planning a revenge of her own against Marlena. The deadly kind.

Marlena finds herself in a race against time to no longer change her man. Now she has to save him. And herself.

Check it out here: Messed With The Wrong One: An Urban Romance Thriller

The Governor’s Wife

He was sent to do one job.

Get rid of the man the Governor's wife was sleeping with.
A single shot was fired, and the mission should have been accomplished.

Instead, he shot the wrong person.

And now there's a bounty on his head.

The Governor's Wife is a fast-paced action thriller about a man who had one mission, but failed, and unbeknownst to him, that failed mission would unfold a whirlwind of conspiracies, secrets, and lies.

Check it out here: The Governor’s Wife

Everybody Ain’t Your Friend: An Urban Romance Thriller

They say you should keep your friends close, and enemies closer, but sometimes reality might be the other way around...

Mia thinks her life is completely normal. She has a loving boyfriend, great and supportive friends, and a close relationship with her mother.

Things take an interesting turn, however, when she is almost run down by a car one day. Then come the messages from an untraceable number. Not to mention the heartbreaking secret that is revealed shortly thereafter.

Suddenly, everything that Mia thought was right in her life goes wrong. She has no idea why, but she needs to find out, before her secret stalker decides her time is up.

Check it out here: Everybody Ain’t Your Friend: An Urban Romance Thriller

Should Have Thought Twice: A Psychological Thriller

They say to always watch the quiet ones, because you never know when they might snap.

Shatina is a young woman with a troubled past and present. She lives in the shadows of her fraternal twin sister, who sucked up all the beauty genes, her best friend, whose seductive charm will sway any boy who listens, and her cousin, who is more than a knockout, but a force to be reckoned with.

Shatina feels like she has nothing going for her but her grades and her full scholarship to a four year institution of her choice… until someone comes along to threaten that.

Shatina has faced threats before, and little does anyone know, she has gained vindication over all of her enemies, one by one. Except this last one might be a bit more of a challenge than she bargained for.

Check it out here: Should Have Thought Twice: A Psychological Thriller

Not What It Seems: A Christian Romance Thriller

Sparks begin to fly between Priscilla and Raheem, but soon they will learn, all is not what it seems.

Priscilla moves across the country to escape a toxic ex who won’t let her go. Her mindset is healing, but within days of her arrival, she’s introduced to the sexiest man she’s ever laid eyes on: Raheem.

When Priscilla and Raheem's eyes meet, the chemistry is immediate. One would think they are a match made in heaven, and everything will go smoothly for them.

Wrong.

Because the closer Priscilla and Raheem get to one another, the more strange things begin to happen.

Sinister things.

What has Priscilla gotten herself into?

She’s locked into Raheem, and he wants her to stay, but as the song goes, jealousy is cruel as the grave… (Song of Solomon 8:6).

Check it out here: Not What It Seems: A Christian Romance Thriller

Clean Up Woman

What happens when dreams turn deadly?

Yana is a workaholic. She has noble aspirations but isn’t taking care of home. Meanwhile, Sasha, her new nanny, is more than ready to step in. Sasha and Yana’s husband, Shawn, get closer, arousing suspicion by Yana.

But there’s more to this nanny than meets the eye. More than what Yana bargained for.

Clean Up Woman is a gripping suspense thriller with jaw-dropping twists and turns you won’t see coming.

Check it out here: Clean Up Woman

Caught Up With The ‘Rona: An Urban Sci Fi Thriller

Cordell's luck could not be any worse. A young black man, a full-time student, doing his best to give back to his community by serving as a substitute teacher, only to receive an email which stated that his job would be suspended for the next three weeks due to the Coronavirus.

Frustrated about the situation, he vents to his lifelong friend, Jerone. Shortly after their conversation begins, they are approached by Markellis, a neighborhood hustler who always tries to sell Cordell and Jerone on his get-rich-quick schemes...

But this one is different. Cordell is pressed for cash, so he convinces Jerone to go along with Markellis' proposal.

No sooner than they say yes, Cordell and Jerone are swept up in an almost unspeakable conspiracy, with less than three weeks to turn it around...

Only it's much more than just Cordell and Jerone's lives that are at stake.

Check it out here: Caught Up With The ‘Rona: An Urban Sci Fi Thriller

December 21st: An Urban Supernatural Suspense

Flick is a regular guy, living a regular life, then the night of Thanksgiving came.

It all started with a conversation he had with his cousin Bru that got a little heated.

Tensions rose, but things calmed down when he went to his mother’s house for the family dinner.

Little did he know, that’s when his life would begin to shift in a direction that he never expected.

December 21st, Saturn and Jupiter aligning, competing belief systems… what did it all mean?
Nothing, Flick thought.
Until the first event.
Then the second.

Follow Flick’s journey in this Urban Supernatural Suspense as he tries to figure out exactly what’s going on.

Is he losing his mind?

Or does everything that is happening have a deeper meaning?

Check it out here: December 21st: An Urban Supernatural Suspense

Where. Is. Haseem?! A Romantic-Suspense Comedy

Ever been ghosted??

Well, Stephanie has, and it doesn't feel good.

After a series of mishaps in the love department, Stephanie meets Haseem. They seem to hit it off and the chemistry between them is steadily building. Until...

Haseem disappears.

Where did he go??
No one seems to know.
But Stephanie is determined to find out.

Follow this story of romance, suspense, and comedy as Stephanie tries to figure out how the man of her dreams could just vanish without a trace.

Check it out here: Where. Is. Haseem?! A Romantic-Suspense Comedy

Tanisha Stewart’s Thrillers

The Quiet Ones Series

Should Have Thought Twice: A Psychological Thriller

Fooled Me Once: A Psychological Thriller

Never Saw Me Coming: A Psychological Thriller

Reap What You Sow: A Psychological Thriller

Surprise Surprise: A Psychological Thriller

The Enemy You Know: A Psychological Thriller

The Love Conquers All Series

A Praying Wife vs A Preying Woman

A Praying Husband Versus A Preying Man

The Red Series

The Deadbeat: A Psychological Thriller

The Student: A Psychological Thriller

The Patient: A Psychological Thriller

The Bridesmaid: A Psychological Thriller

The Hitchhiker: A Psychological Thriller

The Babysitter: A Psychological Thriller

The Neighbor: A Psychological Thriller

The Trainer: A Psychological Thriller

The Dating App Horrors Series

The Perfect Profile, by Toni Larue’

Something About Kera, by Octavia Grant

Wish I Never Met Her, by Tanisha Stewart

Anything for Angel, by Kenya Moss-Dyme

The Deadliest Match, by Keira N. James

The Asylum Series

The Haunting Hour, by Toni Larue’

The Delinquent, by Tanisha Stewart

Mind Games, by Toni Larue’

The Journalist, by Tanisha Stewart

Standalones

Where. Is. Haseem?! A Romantic-Suspense Comedy

Caught Up With The ‘Rona: An Urban Sci-Fi Thriller

December 21st: An Urban Supernatural Suspense

Everybody Ain’t Your Friend: An Urban Romance Thriller

The Maintenance Man: A Twisted Urban Love Triangle Thriller

Not What It Seems: A Christian Romance Thriller

Vengeance Is Mine: A Psychological Thriller

Clean Up Woman

The Governor’s Wife