They spent the rest of the night in the SUV in the driveway, engine running, headlights aimed at the front door like a horror-movie cliché. At dawn, Mike—stubborn, proud Mike—marched back inside to “prove it’s just bad wiring.” Sarah watched from the windshield. He disappeared into the foyer. Thirty seconds later the front door slammed shut by itself. The deadbolt clicked. All the curtains dropped at once like guillotines. Then silence. Sarah screamed his name until her throat bled. Her phone buzzed—a text from Mike’s number: “It’s warm in here now. Come see what we finished.” The attached photo showed Mike standing in the dining room, smiling too wide, with four pale children pressed against his sides, their backward feet leaving wet prints on the hardwood.
