Chapter 9 - The Final Bath
The air in the hallway was stale, heavy with the smell of stale coffee and the terrifying silence that always precedes a storm. Mark stood in the center of it, blocking the exit to the living room, his posture relaxed, almost bored. He was the ex-husband, the father, the man Emily had trusted with her child.
"Mark, get out of my house," Emily said, her voice trembling but firm. She gripped the phone in her hand, the screen lighting up her pale face. "I’m calling the police. I’m not joking."
Mark finally looked up. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and terrifyingly calm. "She’s going to tell them the same thing she told Jenna," he said, his voice smooth like oil sliding over water. "She’s going to tell them you hit her. She’s been trained to say that. She’s already been trained."
Emily felt the blood drain from her face. The belief that she was the protector, the sane one holding the line against a crazy ex, began to fracture. If Mark was lying, if he was manipulating her, then who was telling the truth?
"She is not trained!" Emily screamed, the words tearing at her throat. "She is five years old!"
"Then prove it," Mark said softly. "Call them. See what happens."
Emily looked at the phone, then at Sophie, who was hiding behind her legs, clutching the hem of Emily’s shirt. Sophie was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. "Come on, Soph," Emily whispered, dropping the phone. "We’re going to hide."
She didn't wait for an answer. She scooped Sophie up, the child’s weight feeling like lead in her arms, and ran toward the bathroom. The door was already open. Emily shoved Sophie inside and locked the deadbolt with shaking fingers.
The room was small, sterile, and suffocating. Emily turned on the light, blindingly bright, then rushed to the window, checking the street. No sirens yet. She turned back to Sophie, pulling her into a tight embrace.
"Breathe, Soph. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m right here."
Sophie buried her face in Emily’s neck, her breath hot and ragged against her skin. She was sobbing silently now, her body convulsing. "He’s in here with us," Sophie whispered, the words sounding like a ghost in the small room. "I can feel him. He’s in here."
Emily froze. She spun around, checking the shower, the bathtub, the linen closet. Nothing but towels and soap. "Sophie, look at me. There is no one here. It’s just you and me. You’re safe."
"No," Sophie whimpered, pulling away from her and pointing a trembling finger at the full-length mirror mounted above the sink. The glass was cold, reflecting the harsh bathroom light. "Not the mirror. Behind you."
Emily felt a cold spike of fear pierce her chest. She looked at the mirror. She saw her own terrified face, the dark circles under her eyes, and Sophie’s small, distorted shape beside her. She saw nothing else. Just the two of them.
"Turn around, Emily," Sophie said, her voice dropping to a whisper that sounded impossibly old. "Don't listen to me. Don't look at the mirror. He's right there."
Emily’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She took a shuddering breath and slowly pivoted on her heel.
The bathroom door, which she had locked only moments ago, was no longer closed.
It stood ajar, just an inch, revealing the darkness of the hallway beyond. And standing in that darkness, bathed in the dim glow from the living room, was Mark.
He wasn't holding his hands up. He wasn't looking for a handshake.
His hand was wrapped around the handle of a large, serrated kitchen knife, the metal glinting in the low light. His face was a mask of pure, predatory malice. He took a slow, deliberate step forward.
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The silence in the room shattered.
Sophie screamed, a sound so pure and primal it made Emily’s skin crawl. "Don't hurt her!" Sophie shrieked, throwing herself in front of Emily. "It's me you want!"
