The fever hit me like a freight train around noon. One minute I was folding laundry in the kitchen of our Seattle home, the next I was gripping the counter, vision swimming, sweat pooling at the base of my spine. The thermometer read 104. I texted Cullen.

Me: I'm really sick. Can you come home?

Cullen: Melody needs to run errands. I promised I'd watch Camden. Can you hold down the fort?

I stared at the screen. Melody. Always Melody. His childhood sweetheart who'd moved into our guest room three months ago with her twin sons after her husband—allegedly—died. Three months of watching my husband light up around another woman. Three months of our daughter Sevyn going quiet at dinner. Three months of feeling like a ghost in my own house.

Me: I have a 104 fever. I can't watch four kids alone.

Cullen: Take some Tylenol. I'll be back by eight.

I didn't answer. My hands were shaking too hard to type.

By six o'clock, I was in bed, drenched in sweat, the ceiling spinning above me. Downstairs I could hear the kids—Sevyn's soft voice, Camden's sharp laugh, Oakley asking where Daddy was. I tried to get up. My legs wouldn't hold me. I collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, and told myself it was fine. They were fine. Just a few more hours.

I must have passed out.

When I opened my eyes again, the room was dark. My mouth tasted like copper. My skin felt like it was burning from the inside out. And somewhere below me, I heard the industrial dryer in the laundry room cycle on.

We'd bought that dryer when we moved in. Commercial-grade. Cullen insisted. "For all the kids' sports uniforms," he'd said. It was massive, loud, with a heavy industrial latch that locked automatically when it ran. I hated the sound of it—like something mechanical and hungry.

I heard it now, humming through the floorboards.

Something was wrong.

I dragged myself out of bed, gripping the doorframe, then the hallway wall. Each step felt like wading through water. My vision blurred at the edges. I made it to the stairs, held the railing with both hands, and descended one step at a time.

The laundry room door was open.

Camden stood beside the dryer, perfectly still, hands at his sides. He was staring at the porthole window. The machine was running.

I stumbled forward. "Camden, what—"

Then I saw it.

Through the small glass porthole, tumbling in the drum—clothes, towels, and a small body in a blue shirt.

Oakley's blue shirt.

The scream that came out of me didn't sound human. I lunged for the dryer, clawed at the latch. It was locked. The industrial mechanism wouldn't release while the cycle was running. I yanked harder, fingernails splitting against the metal. Blood smeared across the chrome handle.

"Oakley!" I slammed my fists against the porthole. His small form tumbled past the window again. Not moving. Not moving. "OAKLEY!"

I spun toward Camden. He was still standing there, calm, watching.

"What did you do?" My voice cracked. "What did you do?"

He blinked at me. "Mommy said to play the quiet game."

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. I turned back to the dryer, yanked the power cord from the wall. The drum slowed but didn't stop—some kind of internal momentum. I clawed at the latch again, sobbing, fingers slipping in my own blood.

The room tilted.

My knees hit the tile.

I reached for the dryer door one more time, hand outstretched, and then everything went black.

---

When I opened my eyes, I was still on the laundry room floor. The tile was cold against my cheek. The dryer was silent now.

I tried to sit up. My body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. I braced myself against the machine, pulled myself upright, and looked at the porthole.

The door was still sealed.

The latch was still jammed.

No one had opened it.

Panic exploded in my chest. I staggered out of the laundry room, into the hallway, gripping the wall for balance. My throat was raw. My hands were still bleeding.

"Oakley!" I screamed. "OAKLEY!"

I stumbled into the living room. Cullen was on the couch. Melody sat beside him, her hand on his arm. Camden was curled against her side. Sevyn stood in the corner, small and frozen.

Cullen looked up at me. His face was cold.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he said.

I couldn't speak. Couldn't form words. I pointed back toward the laundry room, mouth open, trying to make him understand.

Melody's eyes were red. Tears streaked her face. "She attacked Camden," she whispered. "She was screaming at him. I've never seen her like that."

Cullen stood. "You attacked a six-year-old?"

"No—" My voice came out broken, barely a rasp. "Oakley—he's in the dryer—"

Cullen's expression didn't change. He didn't move toward the laundry room. He stepped toward me.

"You're delirious," he said. "You need to calm down."

"He's in the dryer!" I screamed. "Camden locked him in the dryer!"

Melody let out a soft sob. Cullen's jaw tightened.

And he didn't go check.

He looked at me like I was the problem.

Cullen's hand closed around my hair before I could react. He yanked me backward. My scalp screamed. My knees buckled and I went down hard, hipbone cracking against the hardwood floor.

He dragged me.

Not toward the laundry room. Not toward Oakley. Across the living room floor like I was something that needed to be disposed of. My hands scrambled for purchase. My fingernails scraped wood. The fever made everything slow and fast at the same time—each second stretched out, each impact arriving too quick to brace for.

"Cullen—" My voice broke. "Please—"

He released my hair and I collapsed forward, palms flat against the floor. Before I could lift my head, his hand cracked across my face. The sound was sharp. Clean. My cheek went numb, then hot, then started to throb in waves that matched my pulse.

I tasted blood.

"You attacked a child," Cullen said. His voice was steady. Righteous. "You terrorized a six-year-old boy because you're too sick to control yourself."

"I didn't—" I tried to push myself up. My arms shook. "Oakley is in the dryer. Please. You have to—"

His hand closed around my upper arm and hauled me upright onto my knees. He shoved me forward. I landed hard in front of the couch. Melody sat above me, Camden tucked against her side, her hand resting gently on his small shoulder. Her eyes were red. Her face was soft with concern.

She looked like a painting of maternal devotion.

"Apologize," Cullen said.

I stared up at Melody. At Camden's blank expression. At the way Melody's fingers stroked his hair with such careful tenderness.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. The words came out automatically. My body knew how to survive this. My mouth knew what to say. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Camden didn't respond. He just watched me with those flat, unreadable eyes.

Melody's voice was barely audible. "It's okay, sweetheart." She wasn't talking to me. She pulled Camden closer. "She's not well. She doesn't know what she's doing."

I tried again. My voice cracked. "Oakley is still in the dryer. Please. Someone has to check—"

Cullen's hand hit the back of my head. Not hard enough to knock me over. Hard enough to shut me up.

"Stop it," he said. His voice was low now. Dangerous. "Stop saying that."

"He's been in there for hours." I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered. The fever was climbing. I could feel it behind my eyes, pressing outward. "Camden locked him in. Camden told me—"

"You're accusing a child." Cullen's face was inches from mine now. "You're so desperate to cover up what you did that you're blaming a six-year-old."

"I'm not—"

He grabbed my face. His fingers dug into my jaw. "You screamed at him. Melody saw you. She heard you."

I looked past Cullen to Melody. She was crying now. Silent tears that slipped down her cheeks and landed on Camden's hair. She looked devastated. Heartbroken. Like she was watching something terrible happen to someone she cared about.

She looked at Cullen and whispered, "I'm so sorry. I should have called someone sooner. I didn't realize how bad it was."

Cullen released my face. I slumped forward, forehead nearly touching the floor. My whole body was burning. My hands were still bleeding from the dryer latch. I could see the smears of red on the hardwood beneath me.

"Where's Oakley?" I tried one more time. My voice was barely a whisper now. "Please just check. Please."

Cullen stood. He looked down at me like I was something broken beyond repair.

"You need help," he said. "Professional help."

Melody rose from the couch, one hand still on Camden's shoulder. She moved toward Cullen, her steps slow and careful, like she was approaching something fragile. When she reached him, she touched his arm. Just her fingertips. Light as air.

"Let me make some tea," she said softly. "You've been through so much today."

Cullen nodded. He let her guide him toward the kitchen. He didn't look back at me.

I stayed on the floor. My cheek throbbed. My head pounded. The fever made the room tilt and spin. I tried to stand. My legs wouldn't hold me.

From the kitchen, I heard Melody's voice. Soft. Soothing. Reasonable.

"She's been like this for weeks," Melody was saying. "Snapping at the kids. Saying strange things. I didn't want to worry you, but I've been frightened."

"I should have seen it sooner." Cullen's voice was tight. Guilty. "I've been so focused on helping you settle in. I didn't realize how bad Lexi had gotten."

"You can't blame yourself." A pause. The sound of the kettle being filled. "You're a good man, Cullen. You're doing everything right."

I closed my eyes. The living room floor was cool against my burning skin. I could hear them in the kitchen. I could hear Camden breathing on the couch behind me. I could hear the house settling around us, creaking and quiet.

I couldn't hear Oakley.

A small hand touched mine. I opened my eyes. Sevyn crouched beside me, her face pale, her eyes too big. She didn't say anything. She just laced her fingers through mine and held on.

Her hand was the only warm thing in the world that didn't hurt.

Morning came through the windows like an accusation. I was still on the living room floor. Sevyn slept beside me, curled into a ball, her hand still holding mine. My fever hadn't broken. My face was swollen where Cullen hit me. The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

I pushed myself up. My body screamed. Every muscle felt bruised from the inside out. I looked toward the kitchen. Cullen sat at the table, coffee cup in front of him. Melody stood by the counter. She was making breakfast. The smell of eggs turned my stomach.

"Where's Oakley?" My voice came out cracked. Raw.

Cullen didn't look at me. "Don't start."

"He hasn't come out." I gripped the arm of the couch. Pulled myself to standing. "He hasn't come out of the dryer."

Melody turned. Her face was soft with concern. She looked at Cullen, then back at me. "Maybe..." She paused. Bit her lip. "Maybe you put him somewhere last night? When you were confused?"

Cullen's head snapped up. He stared at Melody. Then at me. Something shifted behind his eyes.

"His room," he said. He stood. Moved toward the stairs. "I'll check his room."

I followed. My legs barely held me. I gripped the railing with both hands. Cullen took the stairs two at a time. He threw open Oakley's door. The bed was made. The floor was empty. Toys sat on the shelf exactly where they'd been yesterday.

Cullen went through the closet. Under the bed. He moved fast now. Frantic. He pushed past me, back down the stairs. I heard him in the garage. The yard. The basement.

Nothing.

When he came back inside, his face was white. His hands shook as he pulled out his phone.

"I'm calling the police," he said. His voice was tight. Controlled. "Oakley is missing."

Melody gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God."

I stepped forward. "He's in the—"

"Shut up." Cullen didn't look at me. He was already talking to the dispatcher. "My son is missing. Six years old. Blond hair. Blue shirt. I don't know how long he's been gone."

I sank onto the stairs. Pressed my fingertips against my collarbone. Held them there.

The police arrived in fifteen minutes. Two officers. A man and a woman. The woman had kind eyes. She crouched in front of me.

"Mrs. Turner? I'm Officer Reyes. Can you tell me when you last saw your son?"

I looked past her. At the hallway. At the laundry room door.

"He's in the dryer," I said.

Officer Reyes blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"The industrial dryer. In the laundry room." My voice was steady now. Flat. "Camden locked him inside yesterday. I tried to get him out. I couldn't open it. I passed out. He's still in there."

Officer Reyes looked at her partner. The male officer moved toward the laundry room. I heard his footsteps. Heard the door open. Heard him try the latch.

"It's jammed," he called out. "I can't get it open."

Officer Reyes stood. She touched her radio. "We need industrial cutting equipment. Now."

Cullen's face went gray. He looked at Melody. She shook her head slowly, eyes wide. "That's impossible," she whispered. "Camden would never—"

"Ma'am, I need you to step back." Officer Reyes moved between Melody and the hallway. "Everyone needs to step back."

More police arrived. Firefighters. Someone with a massive pair of industrial bolt cutters. They gathered around the dryer. I stood in the doorway. I couldn't look away. My fingertips pressed harder against my collarbone. The skin there would bruise.

The cutters bit into the latch. Metal screamed. Once. Twice. Three times.

The door swung open.

Oakley's body tumbled forward into the firefighter's arms. Small. Limp. His blue shirt was twisted around his torso. His face was—

I don't remember the sound I made. I remember Officer Reyes catching me. I remember my knees hitting the floor. I remember the way the room tilted and kept tilting, like the whole world had come loose from its axis.

Someone was screaming. High and thin and broken.

It might have been me.

Behind me, Cullen made a noise like he'd been punched. I heard him hit the wall. Heard him slide down it. Heard Melody crying, gasping, saying "No no no no no" over and over.

A paramedic knelt beside Oakley. Checked for a pulse. Looked up at the officers and shook his head once.

The room went silent.

Absolute.

Complete.

I pressed my fingertips against my collarbone and stared at my son's small, still body and felt something inside me crack clean through.