Chapter 2 - The Hidden Evidence and the Emergency Call**
With Christopher gone, every second counted. Lucas tried to push himself up from the floor, but his muscles trembled violently under the residual effects of the sedative. “Phones,” he whispered, his eyes darting toward the counter. I checked my pocket with shaking fingers—empty. I scrambled to search the counter, but both of our cellular devices had vanished, taken by Christopher to ensure we had no lifeline to the outside world. Panic threatened to overwhelm me, but I shoved it down. My eyes landed on the blue ceramic plate Christopher had used to serve my portion of the stew. Several contaminated bites remained uneaten, glistening under the harsh overhead lighting. Without hesitation, I pulled open the deep freezer drawer beneath the refrigerator. As my heel accidentally kicked a crumpled grocery receipt on the floor, I instinctively shoved it beneath the cabinet edge, driven by a bizarre compulsion for order amidst chaos. I reached for a clean, heavy-duty freezer bag, grabbed a spoon, and meticulously scraped the untouched poisoned food from the plate into the plastic bag without disturbing the rest of the setting.
Lucas held the freezer drawer steady with both hands, his face pale as death, while I sealed the bag tightly. I tucked it deep behind a half-empty package of frozen peas where casual inspection wouldn't spot it, then placed the blue plate back in its exact previous position to maintain the illusion that nothing had been disturbed. Next, I crept toward the narrow utility cabinet beside the pantry, reaching past a mountain of old takeout menus to grab the old-fashioned corded landline phone that Christopher had spent years nagging me to throw away. My hands were slick with cold sweat as I lifted the receiver. To my absolute relief, a clear, steady dial tone buzzed in my ear. I punched in 911 with trembling digits. The dispatcher answered immediately. Keeping my voice down to a strained whisper, I gave our address in Oakridge, explained that my son and I had suddenly collapsed after eating dinner, and reported that my husband had just spoken on the phone about us not surviving the night. When she asked for Christopher’s whereabouts, I told her I believed he had stepped outside to dispose of our phones or meet an accomplice, though I couldn't be certain.
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The dispatcher kept me on the line, walking me through emergency protocols while assuring me that police units and paramedics were already dispatched. Lucas crawled silently toward the kitchen window, lifting a corner of the plastic blind with one finger. He peered outside into the dark driveway, turned back to me, and shook his head with a grim expression. I whispered to the dispatcher that we would try to shelter near the back door if we could manage it safely, promising to stay on the line until blue lights pulled into our driveway. Before hanging up, I opened the freezer one last time, retrieving the sealed bag of poisoned food and slipping it securely into the waistband of my sweatpants beneath my shirt. It was our smoking gun—the undeniable physical proof that would send Christopher away for good. Helping Lucas to his feet, we began our agonizing crawl toward the exit, determined to reach safety before the monster returned to finish what he started.
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