Cold food.
And a faint chemical smell.
Like bleach.
The living room was neat.
Almost unnaturally neat.
No clutter.
No family photographs.
No television playing.
No toys.
Just a sofa.
Two chairs.
A table.
A clock.
The clock ticked loudly.
Brenna removed her shoes.
I noticed a piece of paper taped beside the door.
She saw me looking.
Then whispered.
“That’s the first list.”
The page was handwritten.
HOUSE RULES.
Shoes off immediately.
No unnecessary lights.
No speaking above level two.
No visitors.
No opening blinds.
No food outside assigned times.
No phone calls without permission.
No leaving property except school.
I read it twice.
Then looked at Brenna.
“What’s level two?”
She spoke barely above a whisper.
“This.”
I felt something tighten in my chest.
“Who made the rules?”
“Dad.”
“Why?”
“Because noise makes problems.”
“What problems?”
She shrugged.
“People noticing.”
That answer chilled me.
I looked down the hallway.
Three doors.
One open.
Two closed.
I asked.
“Where is your father?”
“At work.”
“When will he be home?”
“Six.”
I checked the time.
3:19.
We had time.
But suddenly, I did not want to be alone in the house with an unknown situation.
I radioed dispatch.
