Chapter 2

A few days later, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease. The image of Olivia in that house, of Robert' s strange devotion to her, was burned into my mind. I decided to try again, this time alone. I baked Susan' s favorite lemon poppy seed bread, a small peace offering, and drove to the house on a Tuesday afternoon.

I rang the doorbell, and after a long wait, Olivia opened it. She was wearing casual clothes today-tight jeans and a soft-looking sweater. The professional pretense was gone.

"Sarah," she said, her smile a little less bright this time. "What a surprise."

"I was in the neighborhood," I lied. "I brought some bread for Susan. I just wanted to drop it off and say a quick hello."

"That's so thoughtful of you," she said, taking the loaf from me. But she didn't move from the doorway. She was blocking my entry. "But I'm afraid it's not a good time. Susan had a very difficult morning. She's finally resting."

"A difficult morning? What happened?" My heartrate quickened.

"Just some agitation," she said vaguely. "It happens. Her condition... it can be unpredictable."

Just then, Robert appeared behind her. He was scowling.

"What do you want, Sarah?" he demanded.

"Dad, I just came to see Mom. I want to know what happened this morning."

"Nothing happened," he snapped. "You're upsetting her by showing up unannounced. Your nervous energy is bad for her. Olivia knows what's best."

His words hit me like a slap. I had spent weeks at the hospital after the stroke, learning from the nurses how to care for Susan, how to communicate with her, how to make her comfortable. Now, this man, my husband's father, was telling me that a stranger he'd known for a few weeks knew better than I did.

"Robert, that's not fair," I said, my voice trembling slightly.

Olivia stepped forward, placing herself between us. She put a hand on my arm, her touch feeling like a spider on my skin.

"Sarah, please," she said in a low, soothing voice. "He's just under a lot of stress. We all are. Why don't you come back on Sunday, like you always do? We'll make sure Susan is ready for a visit then. It' s better for everyone if we stick to a routine."

She was managing me, handling me. The condescension was suffocating. I felt a surge of anger, so pure and hot it almost choked me. They were hiding something.

I had no choice but to leave. As I walked back to my car, defeated and humiliated, I heard it. A faint sound from the second-floor window, from Susan' s bedroom.

It was a soft thud, followed by a low moan.

I froze. It was the sound of something-or someone-hitting the floor.

I spun around, my eyes locked on the window. For a second, I was sure I saw the curtain move. My blood ran cold. Was Susan trying to get our attention? Was she in trouble?

I pulled out my phone and called David.

"Something's wrong at the house," I said, the words tumbling out. "They wouldn't let me in. Dad was horrible, and Olivia... David, I think she's in danger. I think they're hurting her."

The rest of the day was a blur of anxiety. David was furious, ready to drive over there and break down the door. I convinced him to wait, to think. A direct confrontation would only lead to them closing ranks, maybe even moving Susan somewhere we couldn't find her. We needed to be smart. We needed to know what was really going on inside that house.

That evening, David came home with a small box.

"What's that?" I asked.

He opened it. Inside, nestled in foam, was a tiny camera, no bigger than a quarter.

"It's a nanny cam," he said, his face grim. "It looks like a USB charger. We'll plug it into the outlet by her bed. It'll stream video right to our phones."

"How will we get it in there?"

"We'll go on Sunday," he said, his voice hard as steel. "We'll cause a scene, create a distraction. While I'm arguing with him, you go in to 'say goodbye to Mom.' You'll have thirty seconds to plug it in."

The plan was desperate, and it was dangerous. But the sound of that thud from Susan' s room echoed in my mind. We had to do it. We had to see the truth, no matter how ugly it was.

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