The door opened. Closed. Silence followed.
I waited, then whispered, “Don’t move yet…”
Ryan’s hand trembled against mine. He was alive. I checked the time. 8:42. I crawled, called 911.
“My husband p0isoned us. My son is alive. So am I. Please hurry.”
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I locked us in the bathroom, trying to keep him conscious. Then my phone buzzed. Unknown number.
CHECK THE TRASH. THERE’S PROOF. HE’S COMING BACK.
Sirens grew louder. Ryan held on to me. And just when I thought help was seconds away, I heard the front door handle turning again.
