The morning began with a quiet that felt almost rehearsed, like a scene set carefully before the curtain rises.
Rain tapped softly against the kitchen window on Oakridge Drive, blending with the scent of fresh coffee and the low, familiar rhythm of our routine. My wife, Betty, moved through the kitchen with the efficiency that comes from thirty years of shared habits. Across the table, our twenty-two-year-old daughter, Audrey, scrolled through her phone, occasionally reading out headlines that barely held my attention.
To anyone looking in, I was Joseph Barrett—successful accountant, devoted husband, proud father.
I believed my life rested on solid ground.
I had no idea it was already collapsing beneath me.
The call came just after eight.
I watched Betty’s face drain of color as she listened. Her hand tightened around the phone, her knuckles whitening.
“My parents,” she said breathlessly when she hung up. “Walter has a dangerous fever. Mildred’s having chest pains.”
The urgency in her voice demanded immediate action. I offered to cancel my most important meeting of the year—an appointment with Tech Vista I’d spent months preparing for—but she refused, almost too quickly.
“No. You can’t miss it.”
Before I could argue, Audrey had already grabbed her keys.
“I’ll go with Mom.”
Within minutes, they were gone—out into the gray morning—leaving behind only the faint scent of lavender and something heavier settling in my chest.
A doubt I couldn’t name.
It wasn’t anything obvious—just small details that refused to sit right. Audrey’s hair had already been tied back before the call ended. Betty’s shaking hands had steadied the moment she stepped outside.
The picture didn’t match the frame.
I skipped the meeting.
Instead, I drove straight to Salem.
I expected sirens.
Instead, I found the front gate open and the sound of a game show blaring through the house.
Through the window, Walter and Mildred sat comfortably on the couch—laughing, eating cookies.
Perfectly fine.
Continue reading on the next page…