Chapter 3: The Gaslight Games
The rest of the evening was a masterclass in performance art. I carried the bowl of soup into Sophie’s room, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a siren blaring, announcing my betrayal. Michael was still in his study, but the silence of the house felt heavy, as if the walls themselves were leaning in to listen.
"It’s okay," I whispered to Sophie, setting the tray on her nightstand. I reached up, my fingers brushing the cold, painted metal of the ventilation grate. "We’re going to be okay."
Sophie’s eyes were fixed on the door. She knew the rules: Michael hated it when we locked the bedroom door. But I turned the latch anyway. It was a small act of defiance, but it felt like burning down a bridge.
I didn't have the tools to unscrew the vent, so I grabbed a sturdy butter knife from the tray. With my hand shaking, I pried at the edge. The paint chipped, falling like gray snow onto my sweater. As the screws finally gave way, the grate swung open, revealing the dark, dusty throat of the house’s lungs.
There, tucked behind a bundle of insulation, was a small, matte-black device. It was no larger than a matchbox, with a tiny, blinking red light that seemed to be pulsing in time with my own heartbeat. I didn’t pull it out. If I removed it, he would know the game was up immediately. Instead, I carefully adjusted it so it was pointing toward the hallway—I wanted him to hear what I wanted him to hear.
I leaned close to the vent, my voice a breathy, rehearsed murmur. "I’m just so worried about this toothache, Sophie. I think we need to go back to Dr. Bennett tomorrow. He seemed so concerned. Maybe there’s something he didn't tell us."
I watched Sophie’s face. She looked confused, then understanding dawned on her. She leaned in, her voice trembling but clear. "Yeah, Mom. I think he’s right. I don’t feel safe here."
I pulled back, a chill racing down my spine. We were baiting a trap.
We heard the heavy thud of footsteps in the hallway. I quickly shoved the vent cover back into place, not bothering to screw it in, just pushing it flush with the wall. I sat on the bed and opened a book, just as the handle to Sophie's door turned.
Michael stood there. He wasn't smiling. His face was a mask of practiced concern, but his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—were scanning the room like a security system.
"Why is the door locked?" he asked. His voice was calm, too calm.
"Sophie was scared," I said, not looking up from the pages. "The dentist visit was overwhelming for her. I wanted some privacy."
He walked into the room, his stride predatory. He stopped near the vent, his head tilting slightly. My skin crawled. Did he know? Could he hear the subtle difference in the room's acoustics? He leaned against the wall, right beneath the vent.
"You should have called me," he said, staring at Sophie. "I would have come in. You know I don't like you two hiding away."
"We weren't hiding, Michael," I said, standing up. I walked toward him, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. I felt like a tightrope walker over a canyon. "Just comforting her. You’re always so busy with work. I didn't want to bother you."
He studied me for a long, agonizing minute. I could see the wheels turning in his head—he was analyzing my micro-expressions, looking for a crack in the armor. I thought of the recorder, of the words I had just fed it. I needed him to believe I was still the submissive, oblivious wife.
"I have some business to finish," he said, finally pulling his gaze away. "But keep the door open. We’re a family. We don't keep secrets from each other."
He turned and left, but the air he left behind felt stale and electrified.
Once he was gone, I didn't breathe for a full minute. I grabbed my phone from my pocket—the one he didn't know I had hidden in the bottom of my gym bag—and stepped into the closet. I pulled up the contact I had scribbled down from memory before flushing the note: Detective Miller.
The phone rang twice.
"Detective Miller," a gravelly, professional voice answered.
"This is Mrs. Carter," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator downstairs. "I found the device. He’s listening. Everything is exactly as you said."
"Listen to me carefully," Miller said, his voice dropping an octave. "Do not—under any circumstances—act differently. If he suspects you know, he’ll move before we’re ready. We’re monitoring the audio feed from our end now that you've activated it. We're going to use his own paranoia to trap him. Can you hold on for another forty-eight hours?"
"I don't know if I can," I said, a tear finally escaping and tracking down my cheek.
"You have to," he replied firmly. "For your daughter. Keep playing the part, Mrs. Carter. The performance of your life starts now."
May you like
I hung up and stepped out of the closet. Sophie was watching me, her small hands clutching her blanket. I walked over and pulled her into my arms, burying my face in her hair. The walls of the house felt like they were shrinking, the ceiling pressing down, but for the first time in years, I wasn't doing this alone.
I looked at the vent one last time. Go ahead, Michael, I thought, a cold resolve settling into my bones. Listen all you want. You’re going to hear exactly what I want you to hear, until the moment the floor falls out from under you.
