Chapter 3 - THE SECRET BENEATH THE BED
The west playroom was larger than the entire apartment my family rented in Cicero. It was filled with thousands of dollars worth of untouched toys: electric train sets, floor-to-ceiling stuffed animals, interactive educational screens, and hand-carved wooden rocking horses.
Yet the room felt hollow, sterile, and cold.
I pushed the heavy oak doors open gently, carrying a small tray with a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a glass of apple juice.
The room was silent.
I didn't call out his name. I didn't look under the furniture right away. Instead, I walked over to the center of the plush rug, set the tray down on the low wooden coffee table, and sat down cross-legged on the floor facing the far wall.
I pulled a small, worn paperback book from my canvas tote—a secondhand copy of a fantasy novel I kept with me—and began reading out loud in a low, soothing rhythm.
I didn't read to him directly. I just read to the empty room.
Ten minutes passed. My voice was the only sound in the vast space.
Then, I heard a tiny, soft rustle behind the long velvet curtains near the bay window.
I didn't look up from my book. I kept reading.
Five minutes later, a tiny pair of dirty socks appeared beneath the edge of the curtain. Noah stepped out inch by inch, his tiny fists clenched tightly at his sides. He stared at me with intense mistrust, his breathing shallow.
He walked toward the table, keeping a ten-foot distance between us, eyes locked on my face to see if I would jump up or grab him.
When I remained completely still, only turning a page of my book, Noah slowly approached the tray.
He didn't eat the soup. Instead, he grabbed the plastic spoon, dipped it into the broth, and deliberately tipped it over, letting the liquid drop onto the rug.
He looked at me, waiting for the anger. Waiting for the punishment.
I didn't flinch. I didn't raise my voice.
"Chicken soup makes a terrible paint," I said casually without looking away from my book. "Tomato soup works much better if you're trying to stain the carpet."
Noah stopped. His tiny brow furrowed in utter confusion.
He took a small step closer to the tray, picked up a piece of warm bread, and took a small, hesitant bite.
It was the first solid food he had consumed in nearly thirty hours.
While he ate in tense silence, my eyes scanned the perimeter of the room. Near the baseboard beside his small bed, I noticed something strange.
The wallpaper near the floor was peeled back slightly, covered in tiny, frantic black crayon scribbles. They weren't typical toddler doodles of suns or trees. They were repetitive, chaotic geometric lines—thick black squares with sharp red X's through the centers.
Above the scribbles, hidden behind a heavy stack of untouched board games, was a small, hand-drawn picture.
It showed three figures holding hands: a large man, a woman with yellow hair, and a tiny child. But the face of the woman had been scratched out with such violence that the paper was torn straight through.
And beneath the torn paper, written in crude, trembling charcoal pencil, were three letters:
N - O - T
Before I could process what it meant, a heavy shadow fell across the doorway of the playroom.
I turned my head.
It wasn't Dominic. It was a tall, lean man with sharp features, slicked-back dark hair, and a silver snake pin pinned to the lapel of his tailored suit.
Julian Vale—Dominic’s younger brother and the head of the family’s legal affairs.
"Well, well," Julian murmured, his lips curving into a thin, predatory smile as he watched Noah eating the bread. "The maid managed to feed the wild animal. Impressive."
Noah froze the instant Julian spoke. The bread dropped from his small hand, and a look of absolute, paralyzing terror crossed his little face—a fear far worse than anything he had shown toward his father.
May you like
Noah scrambled backward, throwing himself under the bed and burying his head beneath the pillows.
Julian took a slow step into the room, his eyes lingering on me with cold amusement. "You shouldn't get too comfortable, Clara. Boys like Noah... they don't heal. Some things are just broken permanently."
