Chapter 1: Shadows in the Home

That year, I became the target of a serial killer. My teacher, desperate to save me, fell down the stairs—hit his head so hard he never walked again—bedridden, unable to speak, trapped in his own body.

The weight of that moment still clings to me, a fog that never fully lifts. I remember the sickening thud—his body hitting each step, the panic clogging my throat. After that, nothing in my life was ever the same.

My teacher remained bedridden for three years. I cared for him, day after day, and eventually married his son.

Three years in the same house, three years of rituals: medication alarms, warm washcloths, the low thrum of the oxygen concentrator. There was comfort in the predictability—a hollow comfort, but comfort all the same. Somewhere in that quiet, I became Derek Carter’s wife.

But I never expected his son would turn out to be a sadist.

I learned to read Derek’s moods the way you learn to read the weather—sometimes you see the storm coming, sometimes it sneaks up and you’re already drenched.

1

At seven in the evening, the sun had dipped below the horizon. Even the sunflowers in the vase seemed to droop, petals curling in the fading light.

The air was thick with the scent of microwaved leftovers. Outside, the last streaks of daylight faded behind the rooftops. The distant drone of a neighbor’s TV and the soft hum of the fridge filled the silence.

The key scraped in the lock, and my stomach tightened. Derek was home.

His footsteps thudded through the entryway—brisk, confident, too loud for our little condo. The front door closed with a dull thud, the plates in the kitchen rattling just a little on their shelf.

I wiped the oatmeal from the corner of Mr. Carter’s mouth with a napkin, picked up the bowl, and moved toward the living room. But as I stepped out, Derek was already there, blocking my path.

I tried to smooth the exhaustion from my face, running a hand through my hair as I met him. "You’re back," I said, trying for casual.

Derek set down his briefcase and shot a cold glance toward his father’s room. "My dad’s eaten?"

His voice was icy again, the same way it was after his promotion fell through. He shrugged off his blazer and tossed it carelessly over the back of the armchair, surveying the room with a quick, surgical scan.

"Yeah." I nodded quietly.

Derek’s gaze sharpened, a mocking edge to his words. "You sure play the doting wife. The neighbors keep whispering that you’re more married to my dad than to me."

His words hung in the air like poison—familiar, stinging. I looked away, heat rushing to my cheeks. Sometimes it seemed he liked to hurt me, just to watch me squirm.

"I just want him to get better," I said softly.

My voice sounded too small, almost apologetic. I caught myself fiddling with the gold band on my finger. The gold band felt colder than usual against my skin, like a reminder I could never take off.

Derek closed the distance between us, anger flaring in his eyes. "Did you marry me because you wanted to, or just for him?" His voice was harsh—this wasn’t the first time he’d demanded an answer.

His shadow stretched across the hardwood, looming. The tension in the room prickled along my skin. I couldn’t meet his eyes.

Mr. Carter heard our argument, his gaze sliding toward me, mouth working helplessly, letting out soft, slurred sounds no one could understand.

The faint, broken noises shattered me. He tried so hard to communicate, but his body betrayed him. The TV across the hall switched to commercials, and for a moment, his struggle echoed through every silent corner of the apartment.

Three years ago—

Back then, Mr. Carter had rushed to save me and paid with everything—hit his head so hard he never walked again, lost the ability to speak. Sometimes I replayed that night in my mind: his desperate dash down the stairwell, the way time slowed before the disaster. Afterward, the hospital was all sterile light, whispered conversations, and hope that faded into grief.

Derek’s irritation was rising. He shouted toward his father’s room, "Can you shut up? Does it hurt you that much when I lay into her? Back then, you could’ve given Mom a heart transplant—why didn’t you save her?"

His voice cracked, ugly and raw—old resentments bubbling up. The mention of his mother’s death was a razor blade between us, never dulled by time.

"Wuwu..." Mr. Carter let out a wailing cry, as if his heart was breaking all over again.

The sound made my chest ache. I set the bowl down, went over, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, as if that could ease his pain.

I couldn’t bear to see Mr. Carter cry. I stepped in front of Derek, blocking him, and pleaded, "Derek, please don’t do this. He already feels so guilty. And before we got married, we agreed: I would be your wife, but you wouldn’t interfere with me taking care of your dad."

My hands trembled. I tried to put myself between them, to be a shield. It never worked, but I couldn’t stop trying.

That agreement—

When Derek proposed, my only request was to stay by Mr. Carter’s side and care for him every day.

That agreement felt like a lifeline then—a way to honor the man who saved me. I clung to it, even as it frayed.

I loved Mr. Carter, and he knew it.

The word love was complicated—twisted up with gratitude, guilt, and something deeper I didn’t dare name.

"Don’t bring up that agreement to me."

The agreement was Derek’s raw nerve now.

His eyes went wild, and my stomach knotted. He lunged, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me into the bedroom. I could feel my pulse thudding in my ears, every muscle tensed for what might come next.

He shoved me down onto the bed, his hands rough and desperate, fingers fumbling at my shirt buttons.

The air went cold. I reached for the edge of the comforter, panic scraping through my chest.

"No! What are you doing? I don’t feel well..." My mind scrambled for an escape—if I screamed, would anyone hear? Would anyone care?

Derek ignored me, lowering his head to bite and kiss my neck with wild abandon.

His stubble scraped my skin, tears pricked at my eyes. There was a sour taste at the back of my throat—fear mixing with anger.

I struggled, pleaded, "Derek, please, don’t do this."

My fingers clawed at the sheets, desperate for escape. I wondered if the neighbors could hear, if anyone would even care.

"Isn’t this your agreement?" Derek’s hand clamped around my neck, his eyes cold and ferocious. "You said it yourself: as long as I let you take care of him, you’d marry me. Now you want to back out? Fine. Tomorrow, I’ll ship him off to a nursing home. You’ll never see him again. That’s what you want, right?"

His grip tightened, and my vision went fuzzy. The threat in his voice was real—he was the kind of man who followed through. I was powerless to resist, so I closed my eyes.

Derek’s grip trembled, and then he let go, lowering his head to whisper in my ear, "Natalie, I can’t go on like this. Please, if this keeps up, I’ll lose it."

His breath was warm against my skin, heavy with desperation. I felt Derek’s tears—hot and silent—soak into my shoulder. I wanted to hate him, but his tears—hot and silent—soaked into my shoulder. Was this love, or just two people too broken to let go?

"I’m sorry." I held Derek’s head in my arms.

My hands smoothed his hair, awkward and hesitant. The room smelled faintly of cologne and sweat—the scent of our unhappy home.

Derek said softly, "Let Dad go to the nursing home. I’ll take good care of you, I can promise you anything."

He was pleading, but his words felt like a trap. I didn’t answer, only kissed him lightly.

My lips barely brushed his cheek, more comfort than passion. Because of my kiss, Derek responded. His love for me was obsessive, just as my love for Mr. Carter was obsessive.

I wondered, sometimes, if anyone in this house really knew what love was anymore.