Chapter 1 - THE LOCKED DOOR
The bathroom knob jerked again.
My son screamed against my chest.
I pressed my back harder against the door, one hand cupping the back of his tiny head while the other gripped my phone.
“Mom, stop!”
My husband's voice cracked through the hallway.
His mother ignored him.
“Open this door!”
The knob rattled so violently that I could hear the metal mechanism grinding inside the lock.
My baby cried harder.
I lowered my mouth to his forehead.
“I'm here,” I whispered. “Mommy's here.”
Three hours ago, I had believed the worst thing that could happen to me tonight was another sleepless night with a newborn.
Now I was locked in a bathroom with my child while my husband and his mother argued outside the door about a DNA test I had never consented to.
And somehow, I already knew the DNA test wasn't the worst part.
Because when my husband had admitted that his mother secretly swabbed my baby's cheek, his voice had sounded frightened.
Not suspicious.
Not angry.
Frightened.
That distinction mattered.
“Back away from the door,” he told his mother.
“You're protecting her now?”
“Just step away.”
“She is hiding something!”
I looked down at my son.
His tiny fingers had curled around the collar of my shirt.
His face was red from crying.
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I opened my phone's recording app again.
The red dot was still there.
Good.
I didn't know exactly what I was going to do with the recording.
But I knew I needed proof.
My husband knocked softly.
“Emma.”
I froze.
He rarely used my name like that.
“Please open the door.”
“No.”
“I'm not going to hurt you.”
“You already did.”
Silence.
I could hear him breathing on the other side.
Then he whispered, “I know.”
That answer terrified me more than an argument would have.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean... I shouldn't have touched you.”
His mother scoffed.
“Oh, please. She is manipulating you.”
My husband's voice hardened.
“Mom. Enough.”
The hallway became silent.
Then I heard footsteps.
His mother was moving away.
My husband stayed.
“Emma,” he said quietly. “I need to tell you something.”
I stared at the door.
“What?”
“The test wasn't my idea.”
“I know.”
“No. You don't.”
My stomach tightened.
“What aren't you telling me?”
He didn't answer.
“Daniel?”
Finally, he said, “The package wasn't mailed to the testing company you think.”
My heartbeat stopped.
“What?”
“I found the confirmation email.”
“From where?”
“My mom's laptop.”
I waited.
“She didn't send it to a normal paternity service.”
The baby whimpered.
I pulled him closer.
“Then where did she send it?”
Another pause.
“She sent it to a private genetics laboratory.”
My blood went cold.
“For what?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“I'm not.”
“Then why would a paternity test need a genetics laboratory?”
“I don't know.”
I stared at the bathroom mirror.
My face looked unfamiliar.
Pale.
Bruised.
Eyes swollen.
Hair tangled.
I looked like someone who had been running from a fire.
But the fire wasn't outside.
It was inside my own marriage.
“What else did you find?”
Nothing.
Then Daniel said the sentence that changed everything.
“There was another sample.”
I stopped breathing.
“What sample?”
“A sample from you.”
The baby began crying again.
And suddenly I wasn't afraid of the DNA test.
I was afraid of what someone could learn from it.
“Where did she get my DNA?”
Daniel didn't answer.
“Daniel.”
His voice finally came through.
“Your toothbrush.”
My knees nearly gave out.
I slid down the bathroom wall.
“No.”
“She took it from the cup beside the sink.”
“When?”
“I don't know.”
“How long has she been collecting things?”
“I don't know.”
I looked at my son.
A newborn.
A helpless little person who couldn't defend himself.
Someone had been collecting biological samples from us.
Not once.
Not accidentally.
Repeatedly.
The bathroom suddenly felt too small.
I reached for the door.
Then stopped.
Something clicked in my mind.
If Daniel was telling the truth, why had he waited until tonight?
Why hadn't he warned me three days ago?
Why had he dragged me across the floor?
Why had he allowed his mother to stay in our house after learning about the swab?
I looked at the recording.
The red dot continued blinking.
“Daniel.”
“Yes?”
“Where is your DNA sample?”
Silence.
Then his answer came.
“I don't know.”
The baby stopped crying.
For one strange second, the house became completely silent.
Then my phone vibrated.
A new message.
Unknown number.
I opened it.
There was no text.
Only a photograph.
My blood ran cold.
It was a picture of my baby.
Taken three mornings earlier.
He was sleeping in his bassinet.
And standing beside him was Daniel's mother.
In her hand was the same swab.
But that wasn't what terrified me.
Behind her, reflected in the nursery window, was someone else.
A man.
Watching.
I zoomed in.
My hands started shaking.
Because I recognized him.
He was the delivery driver who had come to our house the week before.
And beneath the photograph was a single sentence:
YOU'RE LOOKING IN THE WRONG PLACE.
Then another message appeared.
CHECK YOUR HUSBAND'S OFFICE.
I stared at the bathroom door.
Daniel was still standing outside.
May you like
And suddenly I wasn't sure whether I wanted him to come in.
Or stay out.
