Chapter 3: The Performance of the Wife
“Stay on the line, sir,” the dispatcher said. “Officers are dispatched.”
“I am going to secure the premises,” David said.
“Sir, do not enter the house. Wait for officers.”
David hung up. He couldn’t wait. He needed one last piece of evidence. The digital logs proved Ted’s actions—but what about Sarah?
Sarah, his wife of twelve years. The mother of his son. Was she a victim? Afraid of Ted? Or something worse?
David approached the driveway, moving silently. He checked his pocket to confirm the Voice Memo app was recording.
He opened the front door.
The house was warm, smelling of Sarah’s expensive vanilla candles and rich, tannic red wine. Soft jazz played on the Sonos speakers. A picture of domestic perfection—sickeningly contrasted with his son bleeding in the car down the street.
David stepped into the living room.
Sarah sat on the plush beige sofa, legs tucked under her, holding a glass of his best Cabernet. Her hair was tousled. Her lipstick slightly smeared.
Ted was in the armchair opposite her, leaning forward, hand resting on her knee. He held a glass too, laughing.
When David entered, they jumped apart like teenagers caught by a parent. Ted yanked back his hand. Sarah sat up, smoothing her skirt.
“David!” Sarah exclaimed, hand flying to her throat, face flushed. “You’re… you’re home early! We… uh… Ted just stopped by. To check the router. It was acting up. We were just celebrating… that it’s fixed.”
“Hey, buddy,” Ted said, forcing a relaxed grin, eyes darting nervously for an exit. “Yeah, router’s all good. Signal is strong. Just having a drink before I head out.”
David didn’t look at Ted. If he did, rage would take over. He would kill him right there on the rug.
He looked at Sarah. He needed to know if she had a soul left, if there was a chance she could save herself.
David forced a tired, weary smile, loosening his tie, playing the oblivious husband. “That’s great. Thanks, Ted. You’re a lifesaver. Listen, I came back early because I promised Leo I’d take him to soccer practice at 3:30. I’m running a bit late.”
He scanned the empty living room.
“Where is he?” David asked. “Where is Leo?”
This was the trap.
If Sarah cared, she would check. If she didn’t know, she would call his name. If she knew he was in the storage room, she might look guilty—or try to distract him.
Sarah didn’t call his name. She didn’t look guilty. She looked annoyed.
She sipped her wine, eyes locked on David’s, trying to hide her infidelity, entirely forgetting her son’s existence.
“Oh, Leo?” Sarah said, waving her hand dismissively, as if shooing a fly. “He was being a brat earlier. Making so much noise while Ted was trying to work. I sent him upstairs to his room to study. He’s sleeping now. I told him not to come down until dinner.”
Time froze for David.
She hadn’t just lied. She had confirmed—on a recording—that she believed her son was safe upstairs. She hadn’t checked on him in over an hour. She had allowed Ted to drag him screaming away. She had sat there drinking wine while her son was locked in the dark.
She was not a victim. She was an accomplice.
“Sleeping?” David repeated, giving her one last rope. “You checked on him?”
“Of course I did,” Sarah lied smoothly, smiling. “He’s out cold. Don’t wake him, David. Let him rest. Come have a drink with us.”
