Chapter 2 - The Weight of an Innocent
Every maternal instinct in my body screamed to lunge. I wanted to drive my thumbs into Daniel's eye sockets, to rip open his throat with my bare teeth, to tear the flesh from his bones. But cold, calculated logic held me pinned to the floor. Daniel was six-foot-two, two hundred and ten pounds of former college-athlete muscle. If I broke cover now, disoriented and half-poisoned, he would snap my neck before I could cross the kitchen floor.
I had to wait. I had to let him think he was completely in control.
"Ugh, getting heavy, kiddo," Daniel grunted.
He hoisted Noah into his arms. Noah’s head rolled back limply against Daniel’s shoulder, his arms dangling like empty sleeves. For a split second, Noah’s fingers brushed against the floorboards, leaving five faint drag marks in the condensation. Through my barely parted eyelashes, I caught the boy’s face for a fraction of a second.
Noah’s eyes were shut tight, his lower lip trapped between his teeth to prevent a whimper. He was playing his part with the terrifying bravery of a condemned soldier.
Daniel turned and carried Noah down the hallway toward the den. The floorboards above the basement stairs groaned under their combined weight.
*One. Two. Three.*
I counted the paces. The heavy mahogany door of the den clicked shut.
I moved instantly.
I rolled onto my knees, my vision swimming with black spots. The phenobarbital was clawing at my nervous system, pulling my consciousness toward a deep, velvet abyss. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek until the coppery taste of warm blood flooded my mouth. Pain was clarity. Pain was my weapon.
I scrambled silently toward the small utility closet beneath the staircase. Inside sat the old landline phone, its cord coiled like an angry viper among the stack of dusty phonebooks. I picked up the receiver and pressed it to my ear.
Static. Silence.
The line was dead.
The storm had severed the connection, or Daniel had snipped the copper wire on the exterior junction box before walking through the door.
My chest contracted in panic. The 911 dispatcher I had spoken to minutes earlier—had she actually dispatched the cruisers before the line went dead? Did they have our exact location, or was our house just another blinking dropped call on an overloaded rural emergency console?
Through the hallway wall, I heard the dull, hollow *glug-glug-glug* of a plastic container pouring liquid.
The unmistakable, suffocating stench of kerosene began to drift through the ventilation grate beneath the baseboards.
Daniel wasn't waiting for the storm to peak. He was soaking the den carpet. He was pouring accelerant around the sofa where he had placed our only child.
I looked around the small kitchen. I needed a weapon. Something heavy. Something lethal.
The knife block on the counter was empty; Daniel had methodically removed every blade and packed them away to prevent any defensive wounds from complicating the autopsy. The cast iron skillet sat in the sink, submerged in dirty dishwater.
Then my eyes caught the back of the pantry door: the cast-iron fire poker from the basement stove, tucked into the corner behind the mop bucket.
I gripped the cold black iron. It had substantial weight, balanced toward the pointed tip.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed down the hallway again. Daniel was returning to the kitchen to collect me.
"Now for the grieving mother," he muttered to himself, his voice accompanied by the rhythmic rattling of a brass box of strike-anywhere matches.
I didn't return to the floor. The game of pretend was over.
May you like
I stepped behind the pantry door, pulled my elbows in tight, and raised the iron rod above my right shoulder.
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