Chapter 3
The police station was dim, smelling of stale coffee and industrial cleaner.
We had been there for three hours.
The detective, a woman named Miller with weary eyes and a sharp jaw, looked at the photos I had provided with a grim expression.
She didn't need to hear the full story to understand the level of malice involved.
"This isn't just assault, Mr. Thorne," she said, tapping the photos.
"This is systematic torture, coercion, and potential kidnapping charges if we can prove she kept your wife confined."
"She did," I said.
"She used the baby as a leash."
Miller looked at Megan, who was being tended to by a female officer.
"She’s going to need a forensic exam. And we need to get her to a safe house. Your mother has significant influence in this city, Jake."
I nodded, feeling a strange sense of detachment.
"What do I do?"
"You go back," Miller said, leaning in.
"You act like nothing is wrong. We need to catch her in the act or get a confession. We’re going to wire you."
The idea of returning to the house where my wife had been brutalized made my skin crawl.
But I knew it was the only way to ensure my mother never touched my family again.
I returned to the apartment, the air inside feeling toxic, thick with the residue of my mother’s presence.
I sat at the kitchen table and waited.
Two hours later, the key turned in the lock.
My mother walked in, carrying a fresh bag of groceries as if this were a normal afternoon.
"Jake? Why are you sitting in the dark?"
She walked into the kitchen, dropping the bag on the counter.
"Where is she? Did you finally kick the little leech out?"
My heart hammered against my ribs, but my voice remained steady.
"She left, Mom. She took the baby and left."
My mother stopped, her hand frozen over the grocery bag.
"What do you mean, she left?"
"She realized I was onto her," I said, playing the role of the broken man.
"She confessed that she was hiding something, and then she packed her things and disappeared. I don't know where she is."
My mother’s face twisted into a mask of triumph.
"I told you! I told you she was no good! She probably went to her sister’s house."
She walked over to me, placing a hand on my shoulder—a hand that had likely held the instrument that bruised my wife.
"You’re better off, Jake. You’re finally free."
"I feel so empty, Mom," I said, leaning into the lie.
"I just don't know what to do next. I feel like I’ve lost everything."
"Nonsense," she said, her voice dripping with artificial comfort.
"You have me. We’ll get through this together, just like we always have."
I looked at the counter, at the wire hidden beneath my shirt, and wondered if she could hear the sound of my soul screaming for justice.
May you like
"Yeah, Mom," I whispered.
"Together."
