Maya stared at him, her eyes wide with fear and a tiny, fragile spark of hope.
Ethan stood up, wiped the tears from his face, and walked out into the living room to meet his mother.
Lydia was standing by the dining table, a set of legal documents spread out next to a black pen. “Here it is, Ethan. Sign the emergency psychiatric hold. The ambulance is already waiting down the street. I called them before you even got home.”
Ethan picked up the pen. His hand was steady now, fueled by a righteous fury he had never felt before in his life. He looked down at the paperwork. It was heavily detailed, already filled out with his mother’s handwriting, describing Maya as a danger to herself and her child.
He lowered the pen to the signature line.
“You’re doing the right thing for the family, Ethan,” Lydia whispered, leaning in.
Ethan’s finger hovered over the paper. But instead of signing, he looked his mother dead in the eye and said, “You’re right, Mom. Family comes first.”
With a sudden, violent movement, Ethan didn’t sign the paper. Instead, he grabbed his phone from his pocket, hit a button, and a loud, clear voice suddenly echoed from the Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen.
It was Lydia’s voice. Recorded just two minutes ago from the hidden microphone Ethan had installed in the bedroom ceiling alongside the CCTV weeks ago.
“…We can commit her to a private psychiatric facility tonight for severe postpartum psychosis. It will explain her physical injuries, it will explain her delusions… You and I can raise the baby together.”
Lydia’s face dropped. The color drained from her cheeks instantly. “You… you recorded me?”
“I didn’t just record you, Mom,” Ethan said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper as he pointed to his phone screen. “I’m broadcasting this live to the Chicago Police Department dispatch line right now. They’re listening to every word.”
Lydia gasped, lunging forward to grab the phone, but Ethan stepped back, his face a mask of absolute fury.
But before Ethan could say another word, a horrific, choking gasp echoed from the bedroom.
It wasn’t a cry of fear. It was the sound of someone suffocating.
Ethan turned around just in time to see the bedroom doorway. Maya had somehow managed to drag her paralyzed body off the bed, trying to reach the living room, but she was now lying face down in the hallway, a dark, terrifying pool of crimson blood rapidly spreading out from beneath her sweatpants onto the white carpet.
And from the baby’s room down the hall, the sudden, piercing sound of a smoke alarm began to wail, followed by the smell of burning plastic.
Lydia looked at the blood, then at the smoke rising from the hallway, and let out a chilling, hysterical laugh. “You think you won, Ethan? Look around you. You’re too late.”
