Chapter 5 - THE GLASS EYE AND THE SCUFFLE
The mother turned her head back to the cabinet.
Her eyes scanned the top shelf, looking for an open jar, looking for a spoon, looking for anything.
Her gaze snagged on a small, dark shadow tucked into the upper right corner of the wooden frame.
It was a tiny, dome-shaped piece of black plastic.
A hidden security camera.
In the center of the black dome, a microscopic red light blinked.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
It was watching her.
It had been watching the carpet.
It had watched the baby crawling in the dust while the maroon stiletto bounced.
The mother’s hand dropped from the baby food jars.
She plunged her hand into the front pocket of her blue jeans.
Her knuckles scraped painfully against the denim as she yanked out her smartphone.
The screen illuminated her face, casting a harsh, blue glow over her terrified, enraged features.
Her thumb slammed against the glass screen.
9 - 1 - 1.
"Call police."
She didn't wait for the phone to ring.
She hit the green dial button and pressed the cold glass against her ear.
From across the room, the father heard the word.
His head snapped up.
The red handprint on his cheek seemed to glow in the dim light.
His eyes widened in sheer panic, the fear of consequence finally breaking through his cowardice.
He lunged forward.
His leather shoes slipped on the spilled gravy, but he caught his balance, sprinting toward her.
He didn't care about the baby in her arms.
He reached out, his thick fingers clawing frantically at the air.
He grabbed the wrist holding the phone.
His grip was like a steel vise, grinding her bones together.
The mother screamed, a primal, guttural sound that tore through the room.
She twisted her body, throwing her weight backward to protect the child.
The father yanked her arm downward, trying to pry the phone from her fingers.
The momentum sent them both spinning out of control.
They crashed backward into the heavy oak dining table.
The impact was deafening.
The edge of the table slammed into the mother’s spine.
Crystal wine glasses toppled over, shattering into thousands of sparkling knives on the hardwood floor.
Plates spun off the edge, exploding into white dust.
The father pressed his forearm against her throat, his face inches from hers.
He smelled of mint toothpaste and cold sweat.
The baby shrieked, a high-pitched wail of pure terror, trapped between her mother’s chest and the crushing weight of the father.
The mother didn't let go of the phone.
She opened her mouth and bit down violently onto the fleshy part of the father’s forearm.
He roared in pain, his grip loosening just a fraction of an inch.
Through the chaos, a faint, tinny voice leaked from the phone’s speaker.
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“911, what is your emergency?”
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