Christopher moved past the door of his son’s nursery. He paused, opened it carefully, and stepped inside. Little Oliver slept peacefully in his crib, his tiny chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, the night light casting warm shadows on the walls. The baby monitor confirmed what his eyes already knew. Oliver was calm, healthy, and silent.
Christopher left the room and closed the door. The crying continued.
He followed the sound down the corridor, stopping between the guest room and the master bedroom, where the walls met in a corner covered with pale gray plaster and expensive artwork. He placed his palm against the surface. The wall was cold. He leaned forward and pressed his ear against it.
The cry grew louder. It was unmistakably human. It was the desperate cry of an infant. His stomach tightened. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
Behind him, a soft voice broke the tension.
“Chris, what are you doing?”