Chapter 3
Dad’s hand went to the door handle.
“Stay in the car.”
“Dad, no—”
“*Stay here*, Emma. Lock the doors. If I’m not out in two minutes, call 911 again.”
He got out and quietly closed his door.
I watched him walk up the porch steps.
He didn’t ring the bell.
He tried the front door.
Locked.
Of course it was locked.
He’d locked it when we left.
He moved to the side window—the one Melissa always insisted we keep nailed shut.
I saw him jiggle it.
Then he disappeared around the back of the house.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
I looked at Noah.
Still asleep.
Thank God.
I reached into my pocket for my phone.
My new phone—the one the police had given me after taking the old one as evidence.
I dialed 911 but didn’t press send.
Just in case.
Two minutes passed.
Three.
The back door opened.
Dad stepped inside.
I held my breath.
Nothing.
No sound.
No lights turning off.
No one running out screaming.
Another minute.
Then the front door opened.
Dad stood in the doorway.
He waved me over.
“Coast is clear.”
I unbuckled Noah and carried him to the house.
He stirred in my arms.
“Where are we?”
“Home, bug. We’re home.”
Inside, the living room was a mess.
Couch cushions slashed open.
Books pulled from the shelves and scattered across the floor.
The TV hung crookedly on the wall.
“Who did this?” I whispered.
Dad knelt and picked up a framed photo of Mom.
The glass was cracked right through her face.
“Melissa’s sister,” he said.
I stared at him.
“Melissa has a sister?”
“Rebecca. She showed up while we were at the hospital. Neighbors saw her. Said she was screaming that we’d framed an innocent woman, that she was going to ‘get our stuff’ to pay for a lawyer.”
He looked around the destroyed room.
“Looks like she meant it.”
I walked into the kitchen.
Worse.
All the cabinets were open.
Plates and glasses smashed on the floor.
The pantry door—*the* door—hung off its hinges.
And written on the wall in big red lipstick letters:
**YOU’LL REGRET THIS.**
I felt Noah bury his face in my neck.
“I don’t like it here, Emma. Can we go somewhere else?”
I looked at Dad.
He was staring at the writing on the wall.
His hands were clenched into fists.
“Dad,” I said quietly. “We can’t stay here tonight.”
He blinked.
Like he was coming out of a trance.
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Pack some clothes. We’ll go to a motel.”
An hour later, we were in a room at the Budget Inn on the edge of town.
Two double beds.
A television bolted to the dresser.
A smell of old smoke and bleach.
Noah was asleep again within five minutes.
Dad sat on the edge of the other bed, staring at his hands.
I sat down beside him.
“We’re going to be okay, you know,” I said.
He let out a bitter laugh.
“Are we? My wife is in jail. My house is destroyed. My life savings are gone. And my children—” His voice broke. “My children are terrified of their own home because I was too stupid to see what was right in front of me.”
“You weren’t stupid,” I said. “She was good at what she did. She fooled everyone. The neighbors. The teachers. Even you.”
He turned to look at me.
“You’re too wise for sixteen, Emma. You shouldn’t have to be.”
“Someone had to be,” I said softly. “For Noah.”
He pulled me against him.
I let myself cry for the first time that day.
Not because of Melissa.
Not because of the broken house.
But because for the first time in two years, I didn’t have to be the strong one.
The next morning, Detective Alvarez called.
She was at the house with forensics.
Rebecca Carter had left fingerprints everywhere.
They’d issued a warrant for her arrest.
And there was more.
“We’ve been going through Melissa’s phone,” she said. “You need to sit down for this, Mr. Hale.”
Dad and I were sitting in the motel room’s plastic chairs.
Noah was watching cartoons on the bed, volume turned low.
“What is it?” Dad said.
“Melissa wasn’t just married to you,” Detective Alvarez said.
Silence.
“Excuse me?”
“Records show she’s currently married to three other men. In three different states. All of them single fathers. All of them lost significant amounts of money. And in every single case, the children… well. Let’s just say their medical records look a lot like Emma and Noah’s.”
Dad went pale.
“Three other families?”
“Four total, counting you. We’ve been in contact with the other police departments. Two of the ex-husbands are cooperating. The third… we’re still trying to locate him. He vanished two years ago, right after Melissa left him.”
The room felt cold.
“Vanished?” I said.
Detective Alvarez’s voice got quieter.
“His name was Thomas Whitmore. Lived in Oregon. Two kids, a boy and a girl. Melissa married him in 2020. Eighteen months later, he filed for divorce after the kids finally told him what was happening. Three days before the court date, his car went off a cliff on a rainy highway. Body was never found. Ruled an accident.”
No one spoke.
On the TV, a cartoon character laughed.
It sounded wrong.
Out of place.
“You think Melissa killed him,” Dad said. It wasn’t a question.
“We’re looking into it,” Detective Alvarez said. “And here’s the other thing. Rebecca Carter—Melissa’s sister—she was there in Oregon too. She was the one who identified the car as Thomas’s. She was the last person to see him alive.”
I looked at Noah.
He was still watching cartoons, completely unaware.
We weren’t just dealing with an abusive stepmother.
We were dealing with two women who’d been doing this for years.
Who might have gotten away with murder.
And Rebecca was still out there.
“Detective,” Dad said. “What does this mean for us? For my kids?”
“It means we’re going to assign you a protection detail,” she said. “At least until we have Rebecca in custody. And it means the trial is going to be… complicated. Melissa’s lawyer is already claiming she’s the victim. That you manipulated the children, that the evidence was planted.”
“Let her try,” Dad said. “Noah recorded everything. The whole world is going to hear what she did to my kids.”
I wasn’t so sure.
I’d watched enough TV to know that good people didn’t always win.
That monsters had good lawyers.
That the truth could get twisted until you couldn’t recognize it anymore.
That afternoon, we got another visitor.
Claire, the social worker, showed up at the motel with bags of food and a stack of papers.
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” she said, setting the bags on the table. “Good news first. The court has granted emergency custody to Daniel. No foster care. You three stay together.”
Dad let out a breath he’d been holding.
“Thank God.”
“Bad news. The house is still a crime scene. Forensics needs at least another week. And honestly? Even after they’re done, I don’t think you should go back there. Not for a while. Too many bad memories.”
She pulled an envelope from her stack.
“Which is why I talked to my supervisor. The county has a program. Emergency housing for families in crisis. It’s a small house on the west side. Utilities paid for three months. Rent-free. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s clean. And it’s safe. Locks on every door. Security system. And it’s far away from Melissa’s old neighborhood.”
Dad looked at me.
“What do you think, Emma?”
I looked at Noah.
He was coloring on a motel notepad, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth.
I thought about the writing on our kitchen wall.
About Rebecca still being free.
May you like
About the fact that our old house would never feel like home again.
“I think,” I said, “we should go see it.”
