Chapter 3 - The Dark History
The front door clicked shut, locking automatically behind her. The heavy silence of the house rushed back in, broken only by the soft, hiccuping whimpers of my nephew in Mark’s arms.
Mark sank heavily onto the living room sofa, burying his face in his free hand. The phone lay beside him on the cushions, still unlocked, its screen casting a pale blue light across his knees. I walked over to the kitchen sink, rinsed the blood from my mouth with cold water, and pressed an ice pack wrapped in a paper towel against my swollen lip.
"Are you okay?" Mark asked quietly, not looking up.
"My lip will heal," I said, walking back into the living room and sitting on the armchair opposite him. "What about the baby? We need to check him over. Make sure he didn't hit his head or inhale any residual detergent fumes."
Mark nodded, carefully shifting the infant to unbutton his onesie and check his limbs. The baby—little Leo—cooed softly, seemingly recovered from the shock, his wide brown eyes blinking up at us with innocent curiosity. He was completely unharmed, saved by mere seconds.
"He's fine," Mark whispered, kissing the top of the baby's head. "Thank God. Thank God you came over early today."
"Mark," I said softly, leaning forward. "This wasn't an accident. You know that, right? People don't accidentally place a newborn inside a washing machine drum and hold the lid down."
Mark didn't answer right away. He stared down at the floor, his jaw working as he chewed the inside of his cheek. When he finally looked up, his eyes were bloodshot and haunted.
"When I was six years old," Mark began, his voice barely above a murmur, "my younger brother, Toby, died. He fell down the basement stairs. At least, that's what the police report said."
My blood ran cold. "What do you mean?"
"My mother was the only one home with us," Mark continued, his voice hollow. "She claimed she was in the kitchen when she heard the crash. But years later, after our father passed away, I found a box of old medical journals and counseling notes in his attic. Toby hadn't just fallen. He had been terrified of her. He had been showing signs of severe regression, and she... she couldn't handle it. The coroner ruled it an accident because there was no hard proof, but my father spent the rest of his life drinking himself to sleep in the guest room."
"Mark... why didn't you ever say anything?"
"Because she convinced me it was my fault," he said, a tear finally escaping and tracing a path down his cheek. "She told me that if I had watched him like she asked, he wouldn't have wandered off. She twisted my mind so thoroughly that I spent my entire childhood trying to earn her approval by being the perfect, obedient son."
He looked over at Clara’s phone resting on the sofa cushion.
"And I brought her into our home," Mark choked out. "I told Clara she was just old-fashioned. I told Clara to give her a chance."
Before I could answer, the front door rattled. The heavy brass handle turned, and the door swung open. Clara walked in, holding a brown paper bag from the pharmacy, her face glowing with the soft, tired warmth of a new mother stepping out for a brief breath of fresh air.
"Hey," Clara called out, closing the door behind her and kicking off her shoes. "The line at the counter was ridiculous, but I got the—"
She stopped dead in the hallway.
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She took in my swollen, bruised lip, the ice pack in my hand, Mark’s pale, devastated face, and the dark bruise forming along the edge of the sofa where Margaret had dropped her bag.
"What happened?" Clara dropped the pharmacy bag, her face draining of all color as she rushed toward the living room. "Mark? What’s wrong with Leo? Who hit you?"
