Chapter 1 - The Notebook
The rhythmic, high-pitched beep of a cardiac monitor was the only sound Sarah could hear. It was a steady, hypnotic pulse, a lifeline cutting through the sterile silence of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. She sat in the stiff plastic chair, her spine aching, watching the small, translucent hand of her daughter, Violet. Tubes snaked into the baby’s skin, monitoring oxygen and blood sugar, but the screen displayed a reassuring green line. The doctor had just left, his words a warm blanket of relief: “Violet is stable. The toxins are clearing. She’s going to make it.”
Sarah let out a breath she felt she had been holding since the ambulance ride. She looked across the room at her eight-year-old son, Quincy, who sat hunched over a leather-bound notebook. He looked small, his knees pulled up to his chest, clutching the book as if it were his only lifeline.
The detective, a man named Miller, had just finished taking Quincy’s statement. He stood now, shoving his pen into his breast pocket, looking tired but determined.
“We’re going to get to the bottom of this, Sarah,” Miller said, his voice gravelly. “We’ll run a full analysis on that notebook. Whoever did this... they won’t get away with it.”
Sarah nodded, her gratitude a physical weight in her chest. “Thank you. Just... please find out who put that in the nursery.”
Miller nodded to the officer at the door, and they began to file out. Sarah stood up, her legs trembling slightly, and walked over to Quincy. She took the notebook from his hands. It was heavy, the leather worn smooth from years of use.
“Is this all you wrote?” she asked softly.
Quincy nodded, staring at the floor. “I kept a record.”
Sarah flipped it open. The first few pages were filled with recent observations, frantic scribbles about the night her mother-in-law, Naomi, had forced the sleeping pills down Violet’s throat. But as Sarah turned the pages, her breath hitched.
The dates weren't recent. They spanned decades.
*1998: Catherine – Rash, then coma.*
*2002: Jessica – Dropped her in the bath, claimed accident. Died of hypothermia.*
*2005: Alice – Nausea. Diagnosed with stress.*
Sarah’s fingers trembled as she traced the names. These weren't isolated incidents. This was a catalog of destruction. It went back to when Garrett was married to his first wife, Alice. The list went on for years, a grim tally of women who had died under mysterious circumstances, often within months of marriage.
She felt a cold prickle of dread crawl up her neck. The notebook wasn't just evidence of an attempted murder; it was a history book of something far darker.
She looked up to ask Miller about the dates, but the hallway outside the NICU was empty. The glass doors were locked, and the nurses' station was silent. A stern-faced administrator in a starched white coat was standing by the door, blocking the exit.
“We cannot comment on the investigation or the contents of the notebook,” the administrator said, her voice tight and professional. “Patient privacy is paramount. You should be resting.”
Sarah turned back to the desk, her heart hammering against her ribs. “I’m not leaving until I know you’re looking at this. Look at the dates. This goes back to the eighties.”
The administrator’s eyes flicked dismissively to the notebook, then back to Sarah. “We will review the file. Now, please, leave the NICU.”
Sarah felt a wave of nausea wash over her. The detective had been vague on the phone. The hospital was hiding something. The notebook was a roadmap, but the map seemed to be leading her into a dead end.
She sat back down in the plastic chair, opening the notebook to the very last page. The handwriting there was jagged, frantic, and stained with what looked like dried ink. She squinted, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
*If you find this, know that Garrett killed me. He didn’t use a knife. He used the supplements. He poisoned me slowly, day by day, until my organs failed. I knew I was dying, but I was too afraid to speak.*
Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. Garrett’s first wife. Alice. She had been dead for years. Sarah had only heard rumors, whispered about in hushed tones by the neighbors, but she had never believed the worst of him.
*He thinks he’s clever,* the note continued. He thinks the past is buried. But I left a record. Not just for the police, but for the next wife. The one he thinks is so perfect. Naomi.
Sarah’s eyes widened as she read the final line, written in a hurried, desperate scrawl:
*He is planning to do it again with the new wife.*
The air in the room suddenly felt too thin. Sarah’s hand shook so violently that the page rattled. Garrett. Naomi. Violet.
She looked up from the notebook, her eyes scanning the empty corridor, desperate for the detective or the administrator. But the hallway was pitch black, the doors sealed shut.
Then, she heard it.
The soft, rhythmic thud of dress shoes against the linoleum.
Sarah froze. She slowly turned her head, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of the open doorframe. The hallway was empty, save for one figure standing at the far end, bathed in the harsh fluorescent glare of the overhead light.
It was Garrett.
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He wasn't running. He wasn't looking for help. He was simply standing there, watching her. A slow, terrible smile spread across his face, revealing teeth that were just a little too white, a smile that didn't reach his cold, dead eyes.
He raised a hand in a slow, mocking wave.
