do.”
He walked down the stairs, his footsteps heavy and deliberate, leaving me standing alone in the dark corridor outside my daughter’s room.
Act VII: Epilogue — The House on Maple Street
Evan left that night. He packed his duffel bag in thirty seconds, grabbed his truck keys from the kitchen counter, and drove out into the Portland rain without looking back. I watched his rusted Ford pickup tail-light fade around the corner through the living room window, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I didn’t call the police immediately. Not yet.
Instead, I went back upstairs, picked up Emma from her bed—she was sleeping peacefully now, her breathing slow and deep, completely free of the tremors that had plagued her for months—and carried her into my own room, tucking her safely beside me under the heavy down duvet.
