She pushed the stroller down the stairs… but forgot the camera was watching.

We struggled.

She was stronger than she looked, fueled by madness and desperation. The knife slashed wildly. I grabbed her wrist. We twisted, fell, rolled across the floor. Firelight danced over her face—hatred burning bright, consuming her.

She freed one hand and struck me hard across the temple. My vision blurred. She shoved me backward. My head cracked against the stone hearth. Pain exploded through me. Darkness washed in.

Through the roaring in my ears, I heard her footsteps sprint past me toward the kitchen. Toward the cellar door.

Elara. Ethan.

I tried to rise. My limbs would not obey. I called out but no sound emerged.

I heard the lock break. The door creak open. Elara’s scream. Vivian’s shout. Then silence.

Minutes later, Vivian walked back into the main room. She carried Ethan. Elara stumbled behind her, bound and gagged, weeping, hands tied before her.

Vivian stood over me, looking down with a terrible, triumphant smile.

“You fought well,” she said breathlessly. “But in the end… I win.”

She turned to the doorway. The lawyer stood there, bloodied but upright, holding a gun. Jared lay motionless on the porch.

“Tie him,” Vivian commanded. “Burn the place. Leave no trace.”

As they bound my hands, as smoke began to curl from the hearth, I watched Vivian tuck my son securely inside her coat. Ethan cried weakly, frightened, reaching out toward Elara.

Vivian smiled.

“He will never know any of this,” she said. “He will be raised far away. Under my control. And when he is old enough… he will sign everything over to me. You will all be dead. And I… I will be free.”

They dragged Elara out first. Then me. As smoke stung my eyes and heat began to lick at the walls, I realized with crushing despair.

I had failed.

My son was gone.

My wife was captive.