The Blind Box That Cost Me Everything Chapter 05

The Blind Box That Cost Me Everything Chapter 05

The color drained from Gavin’s face.

He stared at the dead screen. His whole body locked.

Then he laughed.

He called his assistant.

“Find out what actually happened with the baby.”

He lit a cigarette and sank back against the car seat. His voice flattened out.

“I guarantee it’s another stunt. She probably paid off the nurse to sell the whole act so I’d hand over cash.”

His assistant said nothing.

“Dig into every detail. I want to know exactly how much she’s trying to shake me down for this time.”

He was halfway through the cigarette when the call came back.

His assistant’s voice sounded different.

“Mr. Ellison… the baby is gone. She died three days ago. The doctors couldn’t bring her back. Mrs. Ellison signed the death certificate herself.”

The ash on his cigarette grew long. His hand had stopped moving.

“What?”

“The baby had a high fever. Complications. She needed emergency surgery, but… the bill was never paid.”

Silence filled the car. The only sound was the faint crackle of the cigarette burning down to the filter.

He crushed it out.

“She’s getting better at this.”

He laughed, but it came out wrong. “A death certificate. She actually got a death certificate. There really is nothing that woman won’t do.”

His assistant was quiet for a beat too long.

“Sir, I verified everything. It’s real.”

“Stop.”

He started the car

He went home.

The shoe rack by the front door was missing her shoes. The flats she’d worn for three years were gone

The living room was dark. Curtains drawn.

He opened the bedroom closet.

His suits hung in a neat row on the left.

The right side was empty.

Every piece of her clothing was gone.

He pulled open the bottom drawer. The baby’s things were gone too.

Her cheap thrifted clothes. The blanket from the nurse. The onesie from her best friend. All of it.

Gone.

All that was left was an empty diaper bag shoved in the back of the closet.

The zipper was open. Nothing inside.

He looked at it for a long time.

The memory hit him. Her crouching right here in front of this closet, packing quietly.

He’d called it a performance.

She hadn’t even turned around.

He walked into the living room.

The secondhand crib was still in the corner.

A patch of paint had chipped off one of the rails, showing the gray wood underneath.

He had no idea where she’d found it. She’d put it together herself. Even the screws were crooked.

He stood over the crib, hands in his pockets.

Empty. The crib was empty. The house was empty.

He pulled out his phone and texted Maren.

[Enough already Come home]

He called her right after. No answer.

Her phone was off.

He sent another text.

[Tell me how much. Just say a number.]

A red exclamation mark popped up next to the message. [Not Delivered.]

He tossed his phone onto the coffee table and dropped onto the couch.

The house was too quiet.

This time of night, he should have heard the baby crying.

She would have been pacing the living room with the baby, loop after loop.

He used to hear them through the closed door.

Every single night.

He leaned back against the couch. Something in his chest felt carved out.

He closed his eyes, and a memory surfaced.

She’d stuck a little sticker over the chipped paint on the crib rail.

A star.

The sticker was still there.

The crib was empty.

The airport doors slid open.

Maren pushed her luggage cart into a wall of eighty–six–degree heat.

The sun hit so hard she could barely keep her eyes open.

A tall man in a white shirt stood waiting at arrivals.

Wesley Mercer.

He didn’t smile when he saw her.

His eyes traveled over her face, then down to the worn travel bag in her arms

He reached out, took the bag from her, and didn’t ask a single question.

“Car’s this way.”

He held the door open. The AC hit her face the second she sat down, and something in her body just gave way. She was freezing.

Wesley reached into the back seat and handed her a jacket.

“Here. Put this on.”

She took it.

They drove in silence for a while before she spoke.

“Wesley.”

“Yeah.”

“My baby’s gone.”

His grip tightened on the wheel. A long time passed before he spoke. “I know.”

She looked at him.

He kept his eyes on the road. She watched him swallow hard.

“I found out what happened. I almost got on a plane that same day.”

“But you said seven days. So I waited seven days.”

Maren said nothing after that.

Palm trees slid past the window, one after another.

The city was new. So were the streets. So was everything.