“That girl is odd,” she’d warned him in a hushed voice. “Yesterday I heard shouting. And music. Loud music — with a sick baby inside? Be careful. People who smile that much are hiding something.”
Those words had burrowed deep.
His son, Oliver — little Ollie — was one year old and already labeled by specialists as permanently limited. Partial paralysis in both legs. Minimal nerve response. Adjust your expectations, they had told him.
Michael kept the diagnosis locked in his office safe like a verdict. Ollie was fragile. Breakable. His wife had died during childbirth; the thought of losing the only piece of her left had twisted Michael into someone he barely recognized.
If Rebecca was careless — if she was playing games while he was gone — he would destroy her professionally.
He unlocked the front door slowly, avoiding the click of the latch. The house smelled like antiseptic and quiet. One step. Silence. Another.
Then he heard it.
Not crying.
Not television noise.
Laughter.
Wild, uncontrollable, explosive laughter.
It came from the kitchen.
Michael’s jaw tightened. Laughing? With my son?