“She was fine. Didn’t hear a peep.”
He lied so easily.
Later, when I walked past the hallway again, the mattress was gone. Blanket folded, floor spotless. Not a single trace left.
That evening I carried a plain white box into the living room where he sat scrolling on his phone.
“Brought you something from the trip,” I said lightly.
His eyes lit up. He loved surprises. “Really? You didn’t have to.”
I set the box on the coffee table. “Open it.”
He tore off the lid, eager, then froze.
Inside were the photos I’d taken that morning: Etta curled on the hallway floor, pale, fragile, shaking under one thin blanket.
“What the hell is this?” he spat.
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