That night Sarah sat in a hotel room twenty miles away, wrist bandaged thick, staring at the local news. The Victorian was already under contract—sold in four hours to a young family with three kids and one on the way. The reporter called it “the steal of the decade.” Sarah screamed at the TV until security knocked. She tried calling the realtor; number disconnected. She tried the police; they said the house had been empty for years, no sign of Mike, no blood, nothing. Just an old birthday card in the attic signed “Welcome to the family.” Sarah looked down. The ribbon stitches were gone. But five faint bruises circled her wrist like tiny fingerprints. And her phone lit up with a new calendar invite for tomorrow: Housewarming — 3:33 p.m. Bring cake.
