The night air was sharp and cold as we stumbled out of the garage, Eli’s small hand gripping mine so tightly that it hurt. His trembling was more from fear than the chill, and I could feel my own heartbeat pounding as if to remind me we were still alive. Just two houses away lived Mrs. Leverne — the kind, elderly neighbor who always seemed to notice when something wasn’t right. I prayed she was home, that her lights were still on, that someone would believe us.
By the time we reached her porch, my breath came in ragged gasps. I pounded on the door with all the desperation of a mother running out of options. A moment later, the door opened, revealing Mrs. Leverne’s startled face. Her eyes darted from my pale, shaking hands to Eli’s frightened expression.
“Good Lord, what happened?” she gasped, ushering us inside without hesitation.
“Please, call the police,” I managed, the words scraping out of me. “Jared… he tried to poison us.”
The phone was in her hand before I could say more. I sank into her couch, clutching Eli close, whispering reassurances I wasn’t sure I believed myself. The room felt both safe and unreal, as if the danger might follow us through the door at any moment.
Minutes later, the sound of sirens split the night — a piercing cry that, for once, brought comfort instead of dread. Red and blue lights washed over the quiet neighborhood as officers filled the house, taking notes, snapping photographs, and collecting what was left of our dinner. I watched them move through the scene like distant figures in a dream.
Eli eventually fell asleep against me, his breathing uneven but steady. I brushed a strand of hair from his forehead and stared at the ceiling, numb. My life — the marriage, the home, the illusion of safety — was unraveling before my eyes. Somewhere inside, a voice whispered that nothing would ever be the same again.