Chapter 2 - SPLIT DECISIONS
The husband, Mark Vance, didn't yell. He didn't demand answers. He moved with a cold, mechanical precision that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"Hand him over, Brenda," Mark said, his voice flat, completely devoid of shock or panic.
Brenda backed further into the corner, pressing the infant against her blood-stained apron. "She hit me, Mark! She came into my kitchen and attacked me with the stone mortar! Look at my head!"
Blood dripped down the side of her nose, pooling near her lip, but her eyes weren't those of a victim. They were wide, frantic, and fixed on the basement door just beyond the pantry.
I kept my hands raised, backing up half a step to clear my sightline to both of them. "Look at the baby’s ankle, Mark! Look at the sink! She had him pinned under a colander like a piece of dough! There’s a binding ring around his foot!"
Mark didn't glance at the baby's foot. He didn't look at the flour dusted across the stainless steel basin. His eyes stayed locked on his wife's bloodied face, then flicked to me.
"You're the hired nanny, Clara," Mark said softly, his voice dropping into a dangerous, steady register. "You've been here three weeks. You don't tell us how to raise or protect our foster child."
"Protect him?" I gasped, the throbbing under my left eye pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat. "She bound his leg! He was suffocating under metal in a dry sink!"
Mark reached out, his long fingers wrapping firmly around Brenda’s forearms. He didn't pull violently; he squeezed until her grip loosened, expertly taking the screaming infant into his own arms. The baby, tiny Leo, wriggled against Mark’s dark dress shirt, his shrill cries echoing off the white subway tiles of the kitchen.
The moment the baby was in Mark's possession, Brenda’s demeanor shifted. The hysterical fear vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating look. She pulled off her yellow rubber glove, throwing it onto the counter where it landed with a wet slap next to the blood-stained mortar.
"Call the police, Mark," Brenda whispered, stepping behind her husband. "Tell them the nanny went crazy. Tell them she tried to kill me."
Mark looked at me, his expression unreadable. He held three-week-old Leo with one arm while reaching into his pocket with the other. "Clara, you're going to step into the study and sit down. We're going to wait for CPS and the police to sort this out."
Every alarm in my head screamed at once. The study didn't have an exterior window. It had a heavy oak door with a brass keyhole on the outside. If I stepped into that room, I would never leave this house with my freedom, and Leo would remain trapped in this nightmare.
"Look at his leg first," I demanded, stepping forward. "If you have nothing to hide, strip his blanket right now and show me his foot."
Mark’s jaw tightened. "Step into the study, Clara."
I looked at the back door—ten feet to my left, unlocked. I looked at Leo, whose bare, sockless foot was twitching in the air, the deep red line around his delicate ankle turning a bruised, dusky purple.
I couldn't fight Mark. He was six-foot-two and built like a vault. But if I stayed, they would frame the bruised face and the blood on the mortar as an unprovoked attack by an unstable employee. I needed proof. I needed someone outside this house to see what was happening before the evidence was wiped clean.
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My phone was sitting on the island counter, right next to the flour box.
Without a word, I lunged forward, grabbed my phone, and slammed my body against the screen door. The wooden latch snapped with a sharp crack, and I burst out onto the rear deck into the sharp, freezing autumn air.
