I came home earlier than I said I would, the kind of night where you just want the quiet to reset you. The key turned too easily. No TV. No footsteps. The air felt staged.

My seven-year-old was at the entryway before I could shut the door. She yanked my sleeve hard and whispered, “Papa… Mommy did something bad.” I knelt to hug her and she flinched like my arms were a trap, then flicked her eyes toward the hallway as if someone had trained her to check first.

“What happened?” I asked. She didn’t answer—she lifted her wrist. A purple fingerprint circled it, too large to be hers, too fresh to be old. Then she pointed at the laundry room door. The light was on behind it, and from inside came a steady tap… tap… tap, like fingernails on tile, careful and controlled.

I called for my wife. “Lena?” No reply. My daughter gripped my shirt and shook her head. “Don’t open it,” she pleaded. “She said you’d be mad.

” I walked anyway. The knob was warm. Something slid slowly against the door, and I heard breathing on the other side—quiet, deliberate, like someone trying not to make noise.

Before I could touch the lock, my wife’s voice came from behind me, near the kitchen.

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