Chapter 2: Eleven Missed Calls
The urgent care waiting room smelled like disinfectant and burnt coffee.
Frederick slept against my chest beneath a thin blanket.
Amy sat beside me.
She hadn't said more than five words since we left the house.
The television mounted in the corner played a children's cartoon with the sound turned off.
Every few seconds, the bright colors reflected across her face.
I watched her hands.
She kept twisting her wedding ring.
Round and round.
“Amy.””
She looked up.
“Yeah?””
“You can tell me.””
“Tell you what?””
“What you're afraid of.””
She looked toward the reception desk.
“I don't want to talk about it here.””
“Okay.””
I lowered my voice.
“But we're going to talk about it.””
She nodded.
The nurse called Frederick's name.
We followed her into an examination room.
The doctor checked his ears, throat, lungs, and temperature.
Then she looked at me.
“His temperature is still elevated.””
I nodded.
“Is it serious?””
“His symptoms look consistent with a viral infection,” she said.
“But I want you to keep a close eye on him because he's young, he's tired, and he's not drinking as much as we'd like.””
Amy finally spoke.
“He hasn't had much appetite.””
The doctor looked at her.
“Have you been able to get him fluids?””
Amy nodded.
“As much as I can.””
The doctor glanced between us.
“Rest is important. Both for him and for you.””
Amy looked down.
I noticed the doctor's eyes pause on Amy's wet sleeves.
“You've had a long day?””
Amy gave a small smile.
“Yes.””
The doctor left.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then my phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
I looked at the screen.
*Mom.*
I ignored it.
Another call.
Then another.
Amy stared at the phone.
“Answer it.””
“No.””
“She'll keep calling.””
“Let her.””
Five minutes later, I checked the screen.
Eleven missed calls.
Six text messages.
I opened them.
The first said:
*You need to bring Amy home.*
The second:
*She caused a scene in front of everyone.*
The third:
*After everything I've done for you, this is how you treat me?*
The fourth:
*Your wife is turning you against your own mother.*
The fifth:
*Don't let her manipulate you.*
I showed Amy.
She didn't react.
Then another message arrived.
I opened it.
*Remember what I told you about the house.*
Amy's face changed instantly.
The color drained from it.
“What's wrong?””
She shook her head.
“Amy.””
“Nothing.””
“That's not nothing.””
She stood.
“I need water.””
I caught her wrist gently.
She pulled away.
Not violently.
Automatically.
Like she'd learned to do it.
I released her.
“I'm sorry.””
She stared at me.
“You didn't do anything.””
“Then tell me what my mother told you about the house.””
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I can't.””
“Why?””
“Because she'll make you believe I'm lying.””
I leaned forward.
“I'm your husband.””
“I know.””
“Then believe that I will listen.””
She looked at Frederick.
Then back at me.
“My mother didn't just move in.””
“I know.””
“No.””
Her voice cracked.
“You don't.””
She sat back down.
For a moment, she stared at the floor.
Then she whispered, “Six months ago, your mother told me this house was hers.””
I frowned.
“What?””
“She said she paid for most of it.””
“That isn't true.””
“I know.””
“She helped with the down payment,” I said.
“That's different.””
Amy looked at me.
“How different?””
I didn't answer immediately.
My mother had helped us buy the house.
That much was true.
When Amy and I got married, we'd been renting a small apartment.
Teresa offered us money for the down payment.
She called it a wedding gift.
A generous one.
I'd never questioned it.
Because she told me not to.
“You're my son,” she'd said.
“You shouldn't have to start your life struggling.””
But now Amy was staring at me like that memory had another side.
“What else?””
Amy rubbed her palms together.
“She started telling me I was lucky.””
“Lucky?””
“Lucky she let us live here.””
I felt my jaw tighten.
“She said that?””
“Almost every day.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“I did.””
“No, you didn't.””
“I tried.””
“When?””
“The first month.””
I searched my memory.
Amy had been quieter.
More tired.
I had assumed she was adjusting to having another person in the house.
“I thought you were stressed,” I said.
“I was.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
She laughed softly.
There was no humor in it.
“Because every time I tried, your mother somehow knew what I'd said.””
I stared at her.
“What do you mean?””
“She'd come into the kitchen and repeat my exact words.””
My stomach tightened.
“She listened?””
“I don't know.””
Amy lowered her voice.
“But she always knew.””
The door opened.
The nurse stepped in.
“Your pharmacy is ready with the prescription.””
I nodded.
After she left, Amy continued.
“She started making rules.””
“What rules?””
“No food before the guests.””
“What?””
“No sitting in the living room when she had people over.””
I stared at her.
“She said I was supposed to keep the house looking presentable.””
My hands curled into fists.
“She told me not to leave dishes in the sink.””
“Amy…”
“She said if I was going to stay home all day, I could at least make myself useful.””
I looked at her.
“You stay home because you're raising our son.””
“I know.””
“Then why did you let her talk to you like that?””
The second the words left my mouth, I regretted them.
Amy's expression broke.
“I didn't let her.””
She looked away.
“I was trying to survive her.””
Silence.
I reached for her hand.
This time she let me take it.
“I'm sorry.””
She nodded.
“I know.””
My phone buzzed again.
I looked down.
A message from Teresa.
This one was longer.
*If Amy tells you anything tonight, ask her why she hasn't told you about the papers she signed.*
I read it twice.
“What papers?””
Amy looked at the screen.
Her lips parted.
“She wasn't supposed to tell you.””
I felt my pulse rise.
“What papers, Amy?””
She shook her head.
“I didn't sign anything.””
“Then why did she say you did?””
“I don't know.””
Another message appeared.
This time from an unknown number.
A photograph.
I opened it.
It was a picture of a document.
The top line read:
*PROPERTY OCCUPANCY AGREEMENT*
Beneath it was my name.
My wife's name.
And Teresa's.
I zoomed in.
There was a signature at the bottom.
Amy's signature.
But something was wrong.
I had seen my wife's signature thousands of times.
This one looked almost identical.
Almost.
Except for one tiny detail.
Amy always crossed the letter *t* in her first name with a long upward stroke.
The signature on the document didn't.
I looked at my wife.
“Did you sign this?””
Amy stared at the photograph.
Then she whispered:
“No.””
My phone buzzed again.
A second photograph appeared.
This one showed the final page.
At the bottom was a handwritten note.
*If Amy refuses to cooperate, the house can be transferred back to Teresa Bradley under the original agreement.*
I looked at my wife.
She was crying silently now.
“Connor…”
“What?””
“There is something else.””
I waited.
She took a breath.
“Your mother didn't come here because her apartment needed repairs.””
My heart stopped.
“Then why did she come?””
Amy looked toward the closed examination-room door.
“She came because she knew something about the house.””
“What?””
May you like
Amy swallowed.
“She said if I ever told you, she'd make sure we lost everything.””
