Chapter 2 - Traces of an Unseen Child
[Chapter Content Starts Here...]
The silence of the house was a physical weight, pressing against Mark’s eardrums, drowning out the frantic pounding of his own heart. He was still clutching the cold porcelain doll, its painted eyes staring back at him with a grotesque, unblinking innocence. The bassinet was empty, a stark white void that mocked him.
"Eleanor!" Mark screamed, his voice cracking. "Where is she? Where is my son?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He sprinted toward the front door, his feet slapping against the hardwood floor, tearing the doll from his grip. It clattered onto the rug, forgotten. He threw the door open, the cool night air rushing in to meet the stifling heat of the living room.
"Eleanor! If you’ve taken him, you’re going to regret it!"
The yard was dark, illuminated only by the amber glow of the streetlamps down the street. There was no figure in the driveway. No car idling. Just the dark expanse of the lawn, the shadow of the oak tree, and the terrifying possibility that the woman he had just banished was now a kidnapper.
Mark’s hands trembled violently as he fumbled for his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen, his breath hitching in his throat. He needed to act. He needed to save his family.
"911, what is your emergency?" the operator’s voice cut through the haze of his panic.
"My mother-in-law... she took my baby!" Mark blurted out, the words spilling out in a rush of adrenaline. "She's holding him against his will. She's in the house. I don't know where she went, but she has Luke!"
He described the doll, the indifference of the meal, the coldness in Eleanor’s eyes. He gave them his address, his name, everything he could think of. He paced the porch, his eyes darting into the darkness, scanning for any movement. Every rustle of the wind sounded like a car door slamming. Every shadow looked like a woman in a cardigan fleeing with his son.
Within minutes, the wail of sirens pierced the suburban night, shattering the calm. Red and blue lights strobed against the siding of the house, casting manic shadows that danced across the walls. Mark met the officers at the curb, his chest heaving, his hands gripping the metal of the steering wheel of his car.
"Mark Vance?" a tall man in a windbreaker asked, stepping out of the cruiser. His badge glinted under the blue light.
"Yes! That's me. Please, you have to help me. She’s dangerous. She’s not right in the head. She took my son."
The officers exchanged a glance—a look of professional caution that sent a fresh chill down Mark’s spine. "Alright, sir. We're going to go in and secure the scene. You stay here."
Mark wanted to go with them, but the officers ushered him toward the porch. He watched through the glass as they entered his home. He paced the concrete, checking his watch every ten seconds. Two minutes. Five minutes. Ten minutes. The anxiety was a knot tightening in his stomach, sharp and acidic.
Then, the front door opened. Mark sprinted up the walkway, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Is he here? Is he safe?" he demanded, breathless.
Detective Miller stepped out, his expression a mask of confusion. He held a notepad in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. He looked tired, and more importantly, he looked lost.
"Mr. Vance, we need you to sit down for a moment," Miller said gently, his voice low.
Mark ignored him, stepping closer. "Where is my son? Where is Eleanor?"
"We're looking," Miller said, his eyes avoiding Mark's. "We've secured the residence. We've swept the perimeter. But... we need to ask you some questions about the situation inside."
They walked back into the living room. Mark stood by the couch, where the doll lay discarded on the rug. The kitchen was empty. The table was set for one, cold food congealing on the plates.
"Let's start with the baby," Miller said, his voice clinical. "Luke. How old is he?"
Mark blinked, the words catching in his throat. "He's six months old. He... he was just here. On the bassinet."
"And where are his things?" Miller asked, stepping into the nursery. He clicked on a flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom.
Mark followed him inside. The room was pristine. It was a nursery, yes—walls painted a soft blue, a changing table in the corner—but it was sterile. Too sterile.
"No bottles," Miller said, shining the light on the dresser. "No pacifiers. No crib bedding. Nothing."
Mark’s knees buckled slightly. He grabbed the doorframe to steady himself. "She took them. She took everything."
Miller frowned, moving to the closet. He opened the door and shined the light inside. He pulled out a few hangers, shaking his head. "No baby clothes. No diapers. Just your suits, Mr. Vance."
"What are you talking about?" Mark’s voice rose, panic clawing at his throat. "I bought a crib. I bought diapers last week. Claire showed me the receipt. I held him. I changed him."
"Sir, you need to calm down," Miller said, stepping back into the hallway. He looked at Mark, his expression shifting from confusion to a deep, unsettling concern. "Let's look at the medical records."
They went back to the living room. Miller sat on the couch and placed the stack of papers on the coffee table. Mark recognized the paperwork immediately—it was Claire’s hospital discharge papers, folded neatly from the night before.
"We found these in the kitchen," Miller said, tapping the paper. "It says Claire Vance was admitted yesterday for severe exhaustion and dehydration. She was released this morning."
"Okay," Mark said, his breathing shallow. "That’s right. She was sick. Eleanor forced her to work. That’s why she took him. She wanted to get away."
"But that doesn't explain the baby, Mr. Vance," Miller said softly. "The house is empty of any evidence that a child has lived here in months. No medical bills, no pediatrician visits, no baby gear in the garage."
"Maybe she hid it!" Mark snapped, his desperation turning into anger. "Maybe she's hiding the baby in the basement or the attic. I want to see the garage. I want to see the attic. Now!"
"Mr. Vance, listen to me," Miller said, his voice losing its patience. "We are looking for a missing child. But right now, we are also investigating a missing person. Eleanor Vance."
Mark froze. The air left the room. "What?"
"We found her purse in the kitchen," Miller continued, his tone grave. "And we ran the plates. Her car was found at the bottom of an embankment about three miles from here. It was a high-speed rollover."
Mark stared at him, his mouth hanging open. "You found her? Where is she? Is she... is she hurt?"
"That’s the thing, Mr. Vance," Miller said, reaching for his radio. "Dispatch just updated me."
Mark watched as the detective pressed the talk button. The static hissed for a moment before a voice crackled over the speaker.
"Dispatch to Detective Miller. Subject Eleanor Vance is confirmed deceased. Cause of death: massive blunt force trauma. Time of death: approximately 8:00 PM."
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Mark looked at the doll on the rug. He looked at the empty bassinet. He looked at the empty kitchen.
"8:00 PM," Miller repeated into the radio, his voice flat. "Two hours ago."
May you like
The realization hit Mark like a physical blow. He slumped against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor. "She's dead," he whispered. "She's been dead for two hours."
"And you just got home," Miller said, his eyes searching Mark’s face for a crack, for a sign of guilt. "But you were arguing with her. You were ordering her out of the house. And you found the baby gone."
