Chapter 4 - THE RETURN OF THE KING
The drive back from Aspen was glorious.
The sun was setting behind the peaks,
painting the sky in shades of violet and gold.
Ryan Parker felt like a million dollars.
He had made three new business connections.
He had drunk the finest scotch in the state.
He had a new,
shimmering watch on his wrist,
a gift to himself for another year of "success."
He pulled into his driveway,
noticing Caleb’s truck was nowhere to be seen.
He didn't think about Caleb.
He thought about the peace he had enjoyed.
He imagined Emma would be sulking,
sitting on the sofa with the baby,
waiting for an apology he wouldn't give.
He hummed a song as he stepped out of the car.
The air was quiet.
Too quiet.
He unlocked the front door,
the smell of the house hitting him instantly.
It wasn't the smell of home.
It was a metallic,
stale scent that made the hair on his arms stand up.
“Emma?”
he called out,
his voice echoing in the foyer.
No answer.
He walked into the kitchen.
A half-eaten sandwich sat on the counter,
covered in a fine layer of dust.
His heart began to trot,
then gallop.
He moved toward the stairs.
“Emma,
this isn't funny!”
He reached the second floor.
The nursery door was wide open.
He stepped inside,
his boots clicking on the hardwood.
Then he saw the rug.
The dark,
crusted stain.
It looked like a shadow had died there.
His suitcase slipped from his numb fingers.
The watch on his wrist caught the light for a second before he stumbled.
He fell against the wall,
his breath coming in short,
sharp gasps.
The bassinet was empty.
The room was cold.
The blood told a story of a massacre,
a tragedy that had unfolded while he was laughing on a balcony.
“Emma?”
he whispered,
his voice cracking.
“Ethan?”
He saw the baby blanket Caleb had used.
It was a heap of red-black fabric in the corner.
Panic,
real and raw,
flooded his system.
He looked for his phone,
realizing he had left it in the car—no,
he had left it...
where?
He couldn't remember.
He ran to the master bedroom.
Empty.
He ran to the bathroom.
Nothing but a dry tub and a stack of clean towels.
He returned to the nursery,
staring at the blood as if it were a portal to a hell he had created.
He was convinced.
They were dead.
She had bled out,
and the baby had...
what?
Starved?
The thought was a physical blow to his stomach.
He slumped to the floor,
the very floor where Emma had begged for his help.
The irony was a jagged blade.
He began to sob,
the sound hollow and pathetic.
He was a widower.
He was a father who had lost his son.
And it was all because of a birthday.
May you like
He looked at the empty crib,
the silence finally becoming the fire he told her not to call about.
