Todd didn't look at her. He pulled the old sheets off the bed and tossed them aside.
“I can't stand spending another night with you, wandering around in circles,” he muttered, his face in shadow. His voice sounded tired, dry, as if after a long day at work. “This is better, it's safer.”
Emma clutched her coloring book to her chest. She didn't stop. She just knew that, suddenly, this room no longer belonged to her. Todd sat down and handed her a loose, faded T-shirt. It smelled faintly of laundry detergent and sawdust.
“You don't need pajamas tonight, little one,” he said curtly. “Just put these on. It's easier.”
“Easier for whom?” Emma wondered. But she didn't say. Her eyes remained fixed on the ground, avoiding his, and something about that gesture sent a pain through her chest. She pulled her shirt over her head; the fabric fell past her knees, causing her to spin completely.
While Todd worked, tightening screws and adjusting the thick rails, Emma weighed herself at school. That very morning, the teacher was standing in front of the class, talking about safety.
Regarding that strange feeling in your stomach, the counselor said, “If you feel like something is wrong or you’re scared, even if you can’t explain why, tell a trusted adult or call 911.”
Emma watched Todd strap the bed into place, his hands moving with speed and deftness, as if following the instructions in his head. From where she stood, the high, padded sides rose above the mattress, enclosing it.
It looked like a bed. It looked like a place to go when you have problems.
“This will keep you from leaving again,” Todd muttered, more to himself than to her.
His heart began to pound. He remembered flashes of another light. The front door ajar, the cold air cutting his bare feet, the overly bright streetlights.
Todd called her on the phone and grabbed her tightly before she came down from the porch. She didn't remember getting there. She only remembered being scared.
Todd's phone rang suddenly. He left the room to answer it, lowering his voice. As soon as the phone disappeared down the hall, Emma scanned the room.
On the dresser was his mother's old smartphone, plugged into the wall, its screen half-lit and half-charged, waiting. His hands were shaking as he picked it up. His fingers knew what to do, even with the microphone on, as if he'd been practicing.
She crept to the closet, huddled behind her jackets, the door slightly ajar. When the operator answered, Emma whispered, fearing Todd would hear her over the noise in the house.
“My name is Emma,” she said, the words spilling out of her mouth without her understanding them. “She said, ‘I don’t need pajamas tonight.’”
As she spoke, she looked through the bright curtain into her bedroom. The tall bed was there, silent and strange, waiting for her. She couldn't explain why it frightened her so much.
She simply knew, and that was enough. She raised the phone to her ear, clinging to the calm voice on the other end, while the light she hadn't understood closed around her.
Later, when Mark thought back to that night, it wasn't the doors and the paperwork that first came to mind. It was this hallway, the lock, the photographs hanging on the wall, and the way the air seemed to take a deep breath just before the door opened.
Back in the narrow corridor, time seemed to slow down the moment the lock opened. The sound was sharp, metallic, much louder than it should be in a quiet house.
Agent Mark Harris felt it in his chest as soon as he heard it. That irritating sound told him something important was about to be revealed. Behind him, Todd Blake shifted his weight, radiating a heat-like warmth.
He clenched his jaw as if he already knew how much worse things were going to get. The corridor was dark, lit only by a single overhead light bulb that flickered as if we'd decided to stay open.
Family photos hung on the walls, a little askew. Emma was in almost all of them: at the park with her mother, holding a school paper crow, smiling with a missing tooth.
Todd was alone, half out of frame, one arm hanging awkwardly over Emma's shoulders. The photos told the subtle story of someone still struggling to find his place.
Jepa Cole's gaze remained fixed on the latch. It was solid, newly installed, positioned high up, out of reach of small hands. The type of hardware indicated something inside or outside. She felt a lurch in her stomach. She slowly turned to Todd.
“Why is there a lock on your door?” he asked in a tense voice.
Todd's shoulders stiffened.
“This is trouble,” he said, and the word came out disapprovingly, almost reluctantly. “Nightmares, he's staggering. I told you it's for his safety. Look, I know what he looks like, but…”
Mark interrupted him before he could finish. His voice remained low and controlled, but there was no mistaking the authority he exuded.
—You understand that locking a child in a room is a serious safety issue, right? Fire hazard, emergency access. Back off, sir.
For a split second, Todd looked like he was about to argue. Something in Mark's expression stopped him. He took a step back, his hands slightly raised, frustration reflected on his face as Jepa approached and closed the door completely.
The door creaked shut. The back room was eerily quiet. Emma was sitting on the floor beside the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, clutching the phone in both hands, as if it might disappear if she let go.
Her oversized T-shirt hung loosely on her shoulder. Teardrops glistened on her cheeks, her eyes puffy and wide as saucers as she stared at the strangers crowding her door.
Mark immediately crouched down, his movements slow and deliberate.
“Hi, Emma,” he said calmly. “Don't worry. Don't worry. We're here to help.”
At first, she didn't move. Then she crawled toward him, crouching with her fingers on the crotch of his leg as if to make sure he was real. Mark positioned himself between her and the bed without a second thought; his body reacted before his mind could catch up.
Behind him, Jepa surveyed the room. The bed dominated the small space; its high, padded sides rose like walls around the mattress.
Thick side panels lined the edges, and straps cinched at the shoulders and hips. The crisp, white sheets gave the set a classic, fresh feel, unsuitable for a child's room.
Jepa felt his breathing stop. From where he was standing, judging by the context, it didn't look like protection. It looked like a restriction.
“What the hell is this?” she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.
Todd took a step forward and his words were cut off.
It's for safety. I built it myself. He falls out of bed and has seizures. I've seen something similar for children with special needs. I didn't want to hurt him.
But the explanation couldn't compete with the image I had of them: a crying pineapple, a closed door, and a bed that looked more suited to an institution than a home.
Jepa took out his phone and began documenting the room, snapping photos of the bed, the straps, the door lock. Every click was loud. EPD.
Mark kept his voice calm as he spoke to Emma.
“You did well to call,” she said. “Could you tell me if Todd touched you?”
Emma quickly banged her head.
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