I rang anyway. Once. Twice. I knocked. The crying didn’t stop. It didn’t even change.
Through the living room window I could see the TV glowing blue in a dark room. No movement. No shadow.
The spare key in my pocket felt heavier than it had any right to. Melissa had shoved it into my hand after Noah was born, like giving me access would quiet her guilt for not calling. “In case of emergencies,” she’d said. She’d smiled like it was a joke.
I didn’t smile back.
Another long, ragged wail came from inside, and whatever hesitation I had left dissolved.
The key turned with the familiar click, and I stepped into a silence that felt staged. The crying came from down the hallway, but the rest of the house was still, as if the walls had learned to ignore it.
The smell hit me next. Sour milk. Dirty laundry. That damp, sweet-sour scent that meant a diaper had been overdue for a long time.
My stomach tightened the way it used to when I walked onto job sites and found a beam cut wrong, something structural compromised. Not anger first. Alarm.
