Chapter 3: What Eight Months of Silence Looks Like
Warren lifted the latch.
The door swung open.
Elliot was sitting on the floor in the corner, knees pulled to his chest, still in his wet clothes.
He didn't look up when Warren walked in.
He just made himself smaller.
"Buddy." Warren crouched down.
"Hey.
It's Dad."
Elliot's shoulders moved — a small flinch, like he was bracing for something.
That flinch went through Warren like a blade.
"Elliot.
Look at me."
Slowly, the boy raised his head.
His eyes were swollen.
There was a faint red mark along his left cheekbone that Warren hadn't seen in the video.
The bathroom had been too dark.
"Did she do that?" Warren said quietly.
"That mark.
Did Monique do that?"
Elliot looked down again.
"I fell."
"You fell."
"I'm clumsy.
Monique says so."
Warren sat down on the floor next to him.
He didn't say anything for a moment.
He just put his arm around his son, and Elliot went rigid — then, slowly, leaned in.
"How long has she been doing this?" Warren said.
Elliot didn't answer.
"You're not in trouble.
I promise you.
Nothing that happened is your fault."
"She said you wouldn't believe me." Elliot's voice was barely audible.
"She said you'd be angry at me for lying."
Warren closed his eyes.
"She was wrong."
"She said if I told anyone, she'd make you send me away.
To Grandma's.
Far away."
"That's not going to happen."
"She said you loved her more than me."
Warren pulled his son closer.
"She lied to you.
About all of it."
Elliot finally broke.
Not loudly — just a quiet, exhausted kind of crying, the kind that comes from a child who has learned to cry without making noise.
That detail alone told Warren everything about how long this had been going on.
He held his son until the crying slowed.
Then he stood up, kissed the top of Elliot's head, and walked back down the hallway.
Monique was waiting at the kitchen entrance.
She had composed herself.
Her arms were crossed, her chin lifted.
She had decided, in the time he'd been in that room, to go on the offensive.
"I hope you got his version of events," she said.
"He has a mark on his face."
"He runs into things constantly.
I've told you this.
He doesn't watch where he's going."
"There's a latch on his door, Monique.
On the outside."
"For his safety.
He sleepwalks.
I was worried he'd wander out at night."
"He doesn't sleepwalk."
"He started recently.
You'd know that if you were home more."
Warren looked at her for a long moment.
"Irene recorded you."
The composure cracked — just slightly.
A tightening around the eyes.
"Irene is a bitter old woman who has never liked me."
"She recorded you in that bathroom.
With my son.
I heard what you said to him."
"I was frustrated.
Parents say things they don't mean.
That's not a crjme."
"You called him a bastard."
Monique's jaw tightened.
"I was at my limit.
You have no idea what it's like to raise a child that isn't yours while you're never here."
"You're not raising him.
You've been hurting him."
"That is a disgusting accusation."
"Then explain the latch."
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Then: "I want you to think very carefully about what you're doing right now, Warren.
Because if you go down this road — if you make this into something it isn't — I will make sure everyone knows what kind of father leaves his son alone with a stepmother all day while he plays businessman.
I will make sure your name is the one that gets dragged through this."
Warren didn't raise his voice.
"Get out of my house."
"Excuse me?"
"Tonight.
You leave tonight."
Her eyes went cold.
"You'll regret this."
"Maybe." He held her gaze.
"But Elliot won't."
Monique picked up her wine glass, walked to the sink, and poured it out slowly — a deliberate, unhurried gesture, as if she had all the time in the world.
Then she turned and walked toward the bedroom.
Warren stood in the kitchen and listened to her footsteps.
Then he heard something else.
His phone buzzed on the counter.
A message from Irene.
*There's something else on the recording.
Something I didn't send you.
I need to show you in person.
Please come to the kitchen.*
Warren frowned.
May you like
Irene was still in the house.
He hadn't realized she'd never left.
