The security gate slid open with its familiar mechanical hum. Once it had made me proud. Now it only fed my anxiety. The house stood pristine and modern, white stone and steel lines, everything expensive, everything flawless. Except the life inside it.
I parked in the underground garage and sat there longer than necessary, breathing slowly, preparing myself for chaos. The silence unsettled me. Normally there were screams, toys clattering, the sound of something being dropped or knocked over. Today there was nothing.
Silence with toddlers is never good. I hurried inside, fumbling with the keys, my pulse loud in my ears. The entry hall was empty. The television murmured with a cartoon, volume low. Blocks lay scattered across the rug. No children. No caregiver. Panic surged.
“Luca. Tomaso. Bianca.” My voice echoed, thin and strained.
No answer. Then I heard it. Soft laughter drifting from the kitchen, light and genuine, accompanied by a woman humming a tune I could not quite place. The air carried the scent of sugar and warm butter.