Chapter 2: Nobody Move
I didn't move fast. I moved like I was afraid of what I'd see if I actually looked.
The dining room air was still warm from dinner. The pendant lamp hummed over the table, glassware catching that yellow light. My daughter was against my legs, her bunny crushed to her chest, her finger still pointing toward the hall. She was breathing hard against my knee.
"You don't need to do that," she said behind me. Jewel pendant caught the light when she put her hand to her chest again. Her voice lifted, trying to sound light. "Wait, you don't need."
I had my phone already out. Hallway camera app. Thumbprint failed once because my hand was damp. I swiped again.
"The camera?" I said. It came out flat, not a question to her, a question to myself.
My daughter tugged my polo sleeve. "No, check the camera, daddy," she said. Same line she'd said at the table, same urgency, but quieter now, like she thought I might finally listen.
I looked down at her. Her face was wet, hair stuck to her cheek, eyes red. The bunny's pink ribbon was twisted from how tight she held it. I put my hand on top of her head for a second to steady her.
"Nobody move," I said. "I'm checking it right now."
I said it to both of them and meant it. I didn't want anyone behind me, anyone over my shoulder telling me what I was seeing.
The hallway camera loaded black for a second then snapped into that familiar wide angle — our hallway, the laundry room door at the far end, the white doorframe, the tile that went from wood to linoleum at the threshold. Timestamp in the corner said 6:42 p.m. Tonight.
She stepped closer. I could feel her there, cream blouse brushing my arm.
"Wait, you don't need," she said again, hand reaching toward my phone.
I stepped forward half a step, turning my shoulder so the screen wasn't between us. "I said wait here."
It came out sharper than I meant. She stopped. My daughter stayed pressed to my leg, not moving at all.
I hit playback and dragged the scrub bar back twenty minutes. The hallway was empty at first. Then at 6:38, the laundry door was closed. At 6:39, movement.
I saw her — long dark hair, cream blouse — come into frame from the dining area, holding my daughter's hand. Not walking beside her. Pulling. My daughter's steps were short, stuttering, bunny dragging against her side before she clutched it up again with both arms. Her head was turned up, mouth open, looking at the woman.
She didn't want to go.
The woman opened the laundry room door with her other hand and guided — no, pulled — my daughter inside. The door closed. The timestamp ticked. 6:39:12. 6:40. 6:41. No one came out.
My throat went dry. I could hear the lamp humming again, or maybe that was my ears.
"There she is," I whispered.
I didn't mean to say it out loud. It just came out, air catching on the words. My daughter heard it and answered instantly, like she'd been waiting for me to catch up.
"That's what I told you," she said.
Her voice cracked on the last word. She wasn't pointing anymore. She was looking up at me, waiting to see if seeing it changed anything.
Behind me, she laughed once, short, no humor in it. "Wait, where's my daughter?"
I turned. That line didn't make sense and she must have seen it on my face because she tried to fix it too fast.
"I mean — you can't see her now because —" She gestured toward the phone. "I can explain."
I held the phone out, screen frozen on that frame: the door closed, the hallway empty, the time still running. "Then explain what I'm looking at."
My hand wasn't steady. The phone screen shook a little. The bunny in my daughter's arms shook too because she was shaking.
She looked at the screen, at the door, at me, then back at the screen. The defensive hand at her chest dropped. "She's confused, that's not what happened," she tried again, but the words had nothing behind them now. "She wanted to help me with —"
I wasn't listening to the end of that sentence. My daughter pulled my sleeve again, harder this time.
"Daddy," she said. She had tears again, fresh ones, but her voice was lower, like she was telling me a secret she didn't want the other woman to hear. "There's more."
I crouched down so I was eye level with her. The phone was still in my hand, still playing that empty hallway, door still closed.
"More?" I said.
She swallowed and clutched the bunny tighter and looked past me, toward the back of the apartment where her bedroom was. Her finger came up again, but this time she wasn't pointing at the woman. She was pointing down the hall.
"Look inside my room," she whispered.
The hallway on the screen was still empty. The laundry room door still hadn't opened. And now I understood what I hadn't counted — the minutes she was in there alone with her, and whatever had happened after that door closed that made my daughter ask me to look somewhere else entirely.
May you like
I stood up. My daughter stayed right against my side, bunny locked to her chest, eyes on me. I didn't look at the woman when I said it.
"We're going to look," I said.
