99 "I thought my seven-month-pregnant wife was hiding a betrayal from me because my own mother kept whispering poison into my ears.

We decided to stay at a hotel that night, but before we could leave, we needed to pack enough of Lily’s things. Rachel was downstairs, watching Lily watch cartoons, while Megan and I hastily packed our lives into suitcases.

The air in the house felt heavy, charged with static, like a storm was about to break directly over our roof.

"I'm going to grab her favorite stuffed rabbit from her room," Megan said, her voice hollow.

I nodded, taping up a box of her drawing supplies. "I'll start loading the car."

I carried two heavy suitcases down the stairs. Rachel looked up at me, her eyes filled with deep worry. "Is there anything else I can do, David? Do you want me to drive Lily to my place first?"

"No," I said. "We stay together. I don't want her out of our sight for a single second."

Suddenly, a sharp, piercing shriek echoed from the second floor.

It was Megan.

I dropped the suitcase I was carrying, the heavy plastic crashing against the wooden floor, and bolted up the stairs. Rachel followed closely behind, her face pale.

"Megan!" I yelled, throwing open the door to Lily’s room.

Megan was standing in the center of the room, her back pressed against the wall, pointing a shaking finger at the small wooden crib.

The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlamp outside the window. But I could see it clearly.

The blue blanket with the stitched yellow stars was laid out perfectly across the mattress. It hadn't been left like that. Megan had folded it and placed it in the packing basket earlier.

Now, it was spread flat, as if a child were sleeping beneath it.

And lying directly in the center of the blanket, catching the light from the streetlamp, was a heavy, brass key.

It wasn't the key to our old apartment. It wasn't the key to the yellow door.

I walked over, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and picked it up. Attached to the key was a small, laminated paper tag. Written on it in elegant, perfect cursive—my mother’s real handwriting—was a single address:

1422 Linden Avenue, Oak Park.

The door is unlocked. Come home, David.

"How did they get in?" Megan whispered, her voice cracking, her eyes darting to the window. "The doors were locked. I checked them myself when we came inside."

I looked at the window. It was latched. I ran to the hallway, checking the bathroom, our bedroom. No signs of forced entry.

They hadn't forced their way in. They had a key.

Whoever had taken the picture of our deadbolt had already copied our key. They had been inside our house while we were downstairs. They had stood in our daughter's bedroom, touched her blanket, and left a message on her bed.