I came home early and tried to keep my footsteps quiet as I stepped inside. The house felt normal at first—too normal. No sounds of cleaning, no TV, no running water. Just silence.
Then I noticed something that made my stomach tighten.
The nanny’s shoes were neatly placed by the hallway… but her bag wasn’t near the entrance where she usually left it. It was upstairs.
Near my bedroom.
I slowly climbed the stairs, each step feeling louder than it should’ve been. My son’s words kept replaying in my head: “She locks herself in your bedroom.”
At the top of the stairs, I paused.
My bedroom door was slightly ajar.
And from inside, I could hear something faint—like drawers opening and closing.
I pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
But it didn’t look the same.
My closet door was open.
And on my bed was something I definitely hadn’t left there before: a small stack of papers and an old-looking envelope, carefully placed in the center like someone wanted me to find it.
Just then, I heard footsteps behind me.
Slow.
Controlled.
Coming up the stairs.
And the doorknob behind me started to turn.
