Chapter 2 - THE CHILD WHO NEVER SPOKE
Daniel refused to explain over the phone.
He told me to meet him at a coffee shop across town.
I almost refused.
Rosie was still asleep in the back seat, her small body curled beneath the pink blanket she kept in the car.
But Daniel had sounded terrified.
Not nervous.
Terrified.
So I drove.
The coffee shop was nearly empty when I arrived.
Daniel sat in the far corner wearing the same clothes from the birthday party. His face looked pale.
When I walked in carrying Rosie, he stood immediately.
“Is she okay?”
“She has bruises. Her cheek is swollen. She’s terrified.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
I sat across from him.
“Start talking.”
He looked toward the window.
Then he said, “Bethany has been doing this for months.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“Not just to Rosie.”
I stared at him.
“Who else?”
Daniel lowered his voice.
“Marcus.”
His seven-year-old son.
The birthday party had been for Marcus.
The same child everyone had been celebrating.
The same child whose mother had been laughing while my daughter hid in the bathroom.
“What did she do to him?”
Daniel swallowed.
“I don’t know everything.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“I know.”
His hands began shaking.
“Three months ago, Marcus stopped talking about school. He stopped eating breakfast. He started sleeping with the lights on.”
“Why?”
Daniel looked down.
“Bethany said he was difficult.”
I felt something cold move through my chest.
“Did she hurt him?”
Daniel did not answer.
That was answer enough.
“Where is Marcus now?”
“With Bethany.”
I stood.
“We’re going back.”
Daniel grabbed my wrist.
“No.”
I looked at his hand.
He released me immediately.
“You can’t go back there,” he said. “Dad will call the police and say you attacked everyone.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
I stared at him.
Daniel reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone.
He opened a video.
The footage was dark and shaky.
At first, I could barely see anything.
Then I heard a child crying.
Not screaming.
Crying quietly.
The sound of someone trying not to be heard.
The camera moved.
A basement door appeared.
Then Bethany’s voice.
“Stop crying.”
A little boy answered.
“I’m sorry.”
The video ended.
I stared at Daniel.
“When was this recorded?”
“Last month.”
“Why didn’t you report it?”
His face crumpled.
“Because I was afraid.”
I said nothing.
He looked at me.
“I know how that sounds.”
“It sounds like you left your son with someone you believed was hurting him.”
“I didn’t know what to do.”
“You call the police.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked.
“I know.”
For a moment, I saw the truth.
Daniel had been raised in the same house I had.
In our family, Bethany was always protected.
My mother called her “sensitive.”
My father called her “strong-willed.”
When she broke things, someone else apologized.
When she hurt someone, everyone discussed the victim’s behavior.
And now Daniel had become exactly what our parents had trained him to be.
Silent.
I looked toward Rosie.
She was still sleeping.
“Does Marcus have bruises?”
Daniel nodded.
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“I took pictures.”
He handed me the phone.
There were photographs of a child’s arms.
Small, dark bruises.
Some shaped like fingers.
Others circular.
The same marks I had seen on Rosie.
My throat closed.
“Why were these not reported?”
Daniel looked away.
“Bethany said Marcus hurt himself.”
I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“I’m calling the police.”
Daniel grabbed my arm.
“Wait.”
“No.”
“Please.”
I looked at him.
He opened another file.
A photograph.
It showed a small black device attached beneath a kitchen cabinet.
“A camera,” he said.
My eyes narrowed.
“Where did you get that?”
“From Bethany’s house.”
“What does it record?”
Daniel looked at me.
“Everything.”
My phone rang.
My mother.
I answered.
“What?”
Her voice was cold.
“Come back to the house.”
“No.”
“Your father wants to speak to you.”
“I have nothing to say.”
She paused.
Then she said, “If you take Rosie to the police, you will regret it.”
I froze.
“What did you just say?”
“You heard me.”
The call ended.
I stared at the screen.
Daniel slowly stood.
“Did she threaten you?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“Then we go to the police.”
I nodded.
But before we could move, my phone buzzed again.
This time, it was an unknown number.
A single message appeared.
Your daughter was not the target today. She was the warning.
Below it was a photograph.
A basement door.
May you like
And written across the image were four words:
ASK WHAT HAPPENED TO EMMA.
