Chapter 2 - The Void by the Window
Grant stood in the center of the living room, his tall, athletic frame casting a long, dark spear of a shadow across the woven wool rug. The silence had ceased to be peaceful; it had become an active, mocking presence in the room. He blinked, shaking his head slightly, as if physical movement could realign his vision and restore the nursery furniture to its rightful place.
"Corinne?" he called again, louder this time, the edge of practiced charm slipping just enough to expose the underlying demand for order.
No response.
He took three long strides toward the bay window, kneeling down to touch the empty floor where the bassinet had stood. The pale rings left by the casters were clear against the wood. Corinne hadn't merely pushed the bassinet into another room for an afternoon nap; the decorative nursery basket of burp cloths, the plush silver rattle, and the small mahogany side table holding the nursing lamp were all gone. The alcove had been restored to the sterile, show-house perfection it had possessed before she had announced her pregnancy.
A knot tightened in his stomach. Grant stood up quickly, pivoting toward the open-concept kitchen and morning room. In a house with a three-week-old infant, life was supposed to be messy, crowded, and loud. For the past month, every flat surface had been colonized by baby supplies: silicone bottle nipples soaking in sterilizing racks, silver canisters of organic formula imported from Germany, digital thermometers, stacks of swaddles, and specialized nursing cushions strewn across the sofa.
He pushed through the arched doorway into the kitchen.
The vast expanse of honed Calacatta marble on the twenty-foot center island was completely, flawlessly bare. The stainless steel drying rack that had occupied the corner next to the commercial range had vanished. The row of glass bottles with pale blue measurement markings was gone. The electric kettle was gone. The small, handwritten notepad where Corinne meticulously tracked Owen’s feeding times, sleep intervals, and temperature checks had been cleared away. The refrigerator door, usually covered with ultrasound printouts held by brass magnets, was wiped completely clean, the brushed metal surface reflecting only his own distorted, navy-suited silhouette.
"What is this?" Grant muttered under his breath, his pulse picking up a sharp, erratic rhythm.
He moved from the kitchen to the pantry, his hand yanking open the walnut door. The shelves, which should have held cases of infant supplies, diapers, and postpartum herbal teas, were neatly organized with only Grant’s preferred sparkling water, imported coffees, and dry goods. Not a single diaper remained. Not a single box of wipes.
The house felt hollowed out, as if a surgical incision had been made to extract every trace of new life from its rooms.
Grant stepped back into the wide gallery corridor that linked the kitchen to the grand foyer. His self-assured grin had completely evaporated, replaced by the tight, defensive set of his jaw that his site managers knew to fear on construction sites when deadlines slipped. He was not a man who tolerated disorder in his assets, and his home was the crown jewel of those assets.
He raised his voice to its full executive volume, throwing it toward the second floor with the force of an ultimatum.
"Corinne! If you're upstairs, answer me! This isn't funny!"
The echo died against the high plaster ceilings. The grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room ticked on with indifferent precision, each mechanical stroke sounding like a small, sharp mallet against Grant’s mounting frustration.
Then, faint but unmistakable, a floorboard creaked directly above him on the mezzanine landing.
A slow, deliberate rustle of footsteps followed, moving along the upper hall toward the top of the grand staircase. Grant let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, a sharp surge of relief instantly twisting into irritated anger. She was playing a game. She was trying to punish him for staying in Phoenix an extra three days, making him sweat, demonstrating her unhappiness through theatrics before letting him hold his son and offer his apologies.
"Corinne, for God's sake," he said, turning toward the stairs, clutching the ivory roses before him like a peace offering. "You scared me half to death. I've been calling you since—"
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The figure stepped onto the top riser of the curved staircase.
It was not Corinne.
