He Found His 6-Year-Old Son Scrubbing a Glass Roof—Then Realized His Wife Had Been Torturing Him All Along / Chapter 7 / 20

Chapter 7 - The BaitAt 8:00 AM, David sat in the leather armchair in his study. The room was shrouded in shadows, the heavy mahogany blinds pulled tight. He held his burner phone in his hand, taking a deep breath to steady his pulse.

He dialed Claire's number.

It rang exactly once before she answered.

"Well, well," Claire’s voice purred through the speaker. It was sickeningly sweet, the voice of a woman entirely confident in her own victory. "I was wondering when you'd run out of steam. Where are you, David? The police are very eager to speak with you."

David let out a ragged, trembling breath. He hunched his shoulders, channeling every ounce of exhaustion and despair he felt. He had to sound completely broken.

"You win," David croaked, his voice cracking perfectly. "I... I can't do this anymore. I'm so tired, Claire."

"Oh, poor baby," she mocked. "Being a fugitive is exhausting, isn't it? Sleeping in the dirt, dragging that pathetic little boy around. I told you, David. You are out of your depth."

"I don't have any money," David lied, rubbing his temples. "Ethan is sick. He has a fever. The cuts on his hands are infected. I... I don't know what to do."

There was a pause on the line. David could almost hear the gears turning in her sociopathic mind. She was evaluating his surrender, savoring his defeat.

"Bring him home," Claire commanded. The sweetness was gone, replaced by icy authority.

"If I bring him back... will you call off the police?" David pleaded. "Will you tell them it was a misunderstanding? I just want this to be over. You can have the house. You can have everything. Just let me and Ethan walk away."

Claire laughed. It was the same chilling, airy laugh she had let out on the staircase.

"I'll consider it," she said. "Come to the house. Use the back gate. Be here in an hour. And David?"

"Yes?"

"If I see a single police cruiser, or if you try to pull anything stupid, I will have my friend Marcus put a bullet in your son's head while you watch. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes," David whispered. "Just... don't hurt him anymore."

He hung up the phone.

The facade of the broken man vanished instantly. David’s eyes hardened into dark, dangerous slits. He stood up from the armchair, checking the loaded Glock 19 tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

She was coming. And she was bringing Marcus Vance.

Perfect.

David walked to the massive oak desk in the center of the study. He pulled open the bottom drawer and flipped a hidden toggle switch. A small green light blinked to life under the desk.