Chapter 3 - The Gaslighting
The silence of the house was shattered by the aggressive chime of the front doorbell. Emily jumped, the ceramic mug in her hand trembling. When she opened the door, the gust of wind and the smell of rain carried Sarah inside, followed by the heavy thud of a leather suitcase.
"Mom!" Sarah’s voice was bright, masking the exhaustion in her eyes. She kicked off her rain-soaked boots and hugged Emily, a little too tight, a little too quickly. "I’m finally here. Thank god."
Emily looked past her daughter at Marcus, who was standing in the hallway, wiping his hands on a towel. He looked tired, his shoulders slumped, the picture of a man bearing the burden of a difficult wife. It was a performance so convincing it made Emily’s stomach churn.
"Welcome home, Sarah," Marcus said, his voice gentle. "I was just about to start dinner. Or I can order pizza if you prefer."
"You're a saint, Marcus," Sarah said, dropping her bag and sinking onto the sofa. "Mom has just been... on edge lately. She needs a break."
Emily felt the color drain from her face. "I’m not on edge, Sarah. I’m worried about Mom."
"Worried?" Sarah laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "She’s fine. She’s just stressed about the house, maybe the Alzheimer's is getting worse. You need to relax, Mom. You really do."
This was the first strike of the gaslight. The accusation hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Emily retreated to the kitchen, the warmth of the kitchen starkly at odds with the coldness of the living room. As she washed the mug, she watched through the window. Marcus was leaning against the counter, speaking to Sarah. Sarah was nodding, agreeing with him. They were a team now, united against her.
Later that evening, as the rain drummed a relentless rhythm against the roof, Sarah retreated to her room to unpack. Emily, unable to sleep, decided to tidy the living room. She moved Sarah’s phone from the coffee table to the charger.
It wasn't until Sarah’s hand brushed the screen that a notification popped up. A voice message.
Sarah froze. She pressed play.
*"Help me, Emily."*
The whisper was faint, distorted by static, but the voice was unmistakable. It was Agnes. It was her mother.
Sarah’s eyes went wide. "Mom? Did you record this?"
Emily stared at the phone, her heart hammering against her ribs. "No. I didn't."
"You were on the phone with me at that time," Sarah said, her voice rising with panic. "I remember! It was eleven-forty-two. The night Mom disappeared."
Marcus appeared in the doorway, his face a mask of concern. "What is going on?"
"That's your mother's voice," Sarah said, thrusting the phone at him. "She's down in the drain. She's been there the whole time."
Marcus took the phone, his thumb hovering over the delete button. He looked at Emily, his expression bored. "It’s just a prank, Sarah. Someone sent it. Maybe a prank call from a payphone miles away. It’s obviously not her."
"Look at the timestamp!" Emily screamed, stepping forward. "It’s the exact night she vanished!"
"It's a coincidence," Marcus said, his voice hardening, losing the mask of kindness. "You're tired, Emily. You're projecting. You want to believe this so badly you're making things up."
The next morning, the atmosphere in the house was thick with tension. Emily was in the garage, looking for a tool she needed, when she saw it. On the concrete floor, near the back door, a dark smudge of mud.
She knelt, brushing the dust away. It was a footprint. A work boot print. Deep, muddy, and unmistakable.
Emily’s blood ran cold. Marcus didn't do yard work. He hired a landscaper. But the boot print was fresh, and it was right by the door Agnes had walked out of.
She ran inside, clutching the evidence in her hand. "Marcus," she whispered, her voice shaking. "You were here."
Marcus looked up from his coffee, his eyes cold and calculating. "I was here. I was fixing the back step. It was creaking."
"You were home," Emily said, stepping closer, forcing him to look her in the eye. "Sarah found a recording. It was her voice. She's alive, Marcus. I know it."
Marcus set the mug down with a soft clink. He didn't look angry. He looked tired. He walked over to Emily and placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch heavy and possessive.
"Sit down, Emily," he said softly. "I can't watch you spiral like this."
He led her to the sofa and sat beside her. He looked at Sarah, who was watching from the kitchen, then back at Emily. The facade finally cracked. The mask slipped.
"I put her in the drain," Marcus said. His voice was low, devoid of emotion. "She fell. She was confused, she was wandering. I panicked. I thought if I got her out of the rain, she’d be safe. I tried to move her, but the ground was too soft. I couldn't dig a grave."
Emily stared at him, paralyzed. "You... you trapped her?"
"It was an accident!" he snapped, his voice rising, then dropping instantly back to a whisper. "I panicked! I didn't know what to do. I told you I moved her. I lied."
Emily’s mind raced. If he admitted it, if he confessed...
"Marcus," she said, her voice trembling. "Where?"
"I don't know," he said, looking away. "I was so scared. I drove her somewhere else. I put her in a car. I drove for hours."
The phone on the table rang. It was the police.
Emily picked it up, her hand shaking. "Hello?"
"Mrs. Vance," Detective Miller’s voice was grave. "We went to the location you described. We dug. We found nothing. Just mud and old pipes."
Emily dropped the phone. It clattered onto the floor.
May you like
Marcus stood up slowly, the sunlight catching the sweat beading on his forehead. He looked at the phone, then at Emily. He wasn't smiling, but a cold, dark satisfaction flickered in his eyes.
"We found nothing," he repeated, walking toward the window, looking out at the empty street. "So I didn't do it. And neither did you."
