The last few months had been relentless—meetings, negotiations, flights that blurred into one another. I assumed the mansion would be empty, as it usually was. Quiet. Immaculate.
My refuge.
My cage.
I unlocked the front door. The marble foyer stretched ahead, polished and cold. My footsteps echoed as I walked toward the living room, already imagining a drink and uninterrupted quiet.
Then I heard it.
A murmur.
Soft. Human.
Not the television. Not music.
Voices.
My pulse quickened.
Who was here?
I moved down the side hallway slowly. The sound was coming from Ethan’s room.
My son.
Ethan, with his condition, required constant care. Structure. Attention.
Was something wrong?
His bedroom door was slightly ajar. A dim light spilled into the hallway.
Two voices.
One was Sarah’s—his caregiver for years.
The other was Ethan’s.
But not playful.
Low. Urgent.
I pushed the door open.
What I saw stopped me cold.
Ethan sat on the floor, not in his adaptive chair, not in his bed, but cross-legged on the carpet. Beside him knelt Sarah.
Her expression wasn’t calm.
It was alarmed.
They both turned toward me at the same time.
Between them, partially shielded by Sarah’s body, lay something on the floor.