Chapter 2 - The Return of the Widower
Three days later, the sun shone brightly over Denver.
Ryan Vance pulled his bright red Porsche into the driveway, whistling a cheerful tune. The mountain air of Aspen had been divine. He had skied, drank five-hundred-dollar scotch, flirted with women at the lodge, and bought himself a limited-edition $15,000 Swiss luxury watch.
He unbuckled his seatbelt, checking his reflection in the rearview mirror. "Time to go back and play the tired dad," he chuckled to himself. "Let's see if Emma’s done throwing her little tantrum."
He walked up the front steps, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
The house was eerily silent. No smell of coffee. No sound of baby lullabies playing from the smart speakers.
"Emma?" Ryan called out, setting his designer duffel bag down. "I'm back! Look, I brought you a gift from the airport... well, mostly for me, but you can look at it!"
No answer.
Ryan smirked, rolling his eyes. "Still giving me the silent treatment? Very mature, Emma. Seriously."
He strolled down the hall toward the nursery, humming happily. He opened the door, holding the small velvet jewelry box containing his new watch.
"Emma, I'm home, and—"
The words froze in his throat.
The room looked like a horror movie set.
In the center of the room, the soft cream-colored rug was soaked in a massive, dried, blackish-red stain. Traces of smeared blood trailed toward the doorway. Medical wrappers, discarded latex gloves, and cut IV tubing littered the floor where the paramedics had worked. The bassinet sat wide open, cold and empty.
Ryan took a step back, his face turning paper-white. The velvet watch box slipped from his trembling fingers, striking the hardwood floor and shattering open. The expensive watch rolled into the edge of the dried blood.
"E-Emma?" he stammered, his knees shaking violently. "Ethan?"
He rushed to the master bedroom. Empty. The bathroom. Empty.
Panic—real, primal, suffocating panic—clutched Ryan’s throat for the first time in his life. He remembered the blood. The sheer volume of it. A human body couldn't lose that much blood and live.
He remembered her begging him on her knees: “Please... I think I need a hospital.” And his own cold reply: “Stop being a drama queen. Don’t call me unless the house is actually on fire.”
"Oh God," Ryan gasped, clutching his chest, his breathing coming in ragged, hyperventilating gulps. "Oh God, no... no, no, no!"
He pulled out his phone with slick, sweaty hands, frantically dialing Emma’s number. It went straight to voicemail. He called her mother. Blocked. He called her best friend, Sarah. It rang twice before going to a dead tone.
He sank onto the blood-stained carpet, looking at his hands. He was under thirty years old, and he believed he had just let his wife bleed to death on the floor while he drank whiskey in Aspen. If the police found out he had ignored her emergency calls to go party, he wouldn't just be a widower—he would be branded a monster.
Suddenly, the front door clicked open again.
Ryan gasped, scrambling up from the floor. "Emma?!" he screamed, sprinting into the hallway. "Emma, you're alive?!"
He rounded the corner and stopped dead in his tracks.
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Standing in the foyer was not Emma. It was Detective Thomas Miller from the Denver Police Department, accompanied by two armed officers and a child protective services investigator holding a binder.
Behind them stood Marcus, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Ryan with eyes that could cut through steel.
