Noah jolted, a sudden, violent convulsion racking his small frame. He gagged. I knew the signs—the poison was rejecting his stomach, but if he vomited loudly, Daniel would know exactly where we were positioned behind the door. Terrified, I forced my own hand over his mouth, weeping silently as my son choked back the fluid, his tears scalding hot against my palms.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I mouthed into his hair, my heart shattering into a million pieces.
Thud!
Another heavy strike. The top hinge of the bathroom door gave way with a sickening crack. A sliver of light from the hallway cut through the darkness of the bathroom, illuminating the haze of dust motes dancing in the air. Through the crack, I could see a sliver of Daniel’s face. His eyes were wide, manic, completely devoid of the man I loved. He looked like a predator staring into a trap.
“I see you, Rachel,” he whispered, his voice dangerously close to the splintered gap. “I see the shadow of your feet. Open the door, honey. Let me help you. It’ll be quicker that way.”
“Daniel, look!” Vanessa suddenly shrieked from the living room. “On the counter! Her purse—her keys are still here, but her phone isn’t!”
“Damn it!” Daniel roared.
He didn’t throw his shoulder against the door this time. Instead, he kicked it. The heavy, solid wood shuddered, and the bottom latch tore completely out of the drywall. The door swung inward by a few inches, blocked only by my body weight and the heavy wicker laundry hamper I had dragged in front of it.
The gap was now wide enough for him to see us clearly.
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