Chapter 3 - THE EMPTY NURSERY
I could see the pale rectangle on the nursery wall where the crib had stood.
For three weeks, Gavin had complained that I was nesting too early.
Now the crib was gone before our daughter had ever slept in it.
I pressed both palms against the cold glass of the front window.
"He took it."
Marlene stood behind me.
"Audrey, step back from the window."
"He took her crib."
The officer, whose badge read MARTINEZ, moved toward the front door.
"Mrs. Ellison, is your name on the property?"
"The lease is in both names."
We rented the house.
For years, Gavin had called it his house whenever he was angry and our house whenever the rent was due.
Officer Martinez asked whether there was another entrance.
The back door opened with my key.
Gavin had changed only the front lock.
That detail bothered me more than if he had changed them all.
It meant he had been in a hurry.
Or he wanted me to think I was completely locked out before I checked.
The officer entered first.
Marlene followed me through the kitchen.
The counters were clean.
Too clean.
The coffee maker was gone.
So was the air fryer Gavin had bought with points from one of his credit cards.
The knife block remained.
The refrigerator hummed like nothing had happened.
I opened it.
My yogurt was still there.
A carton of milk.
Three apples.
The lasagna I had made the night before.
Gavin had taken things selectively.
Not the things we shared.
The things he considered his.
Officer Martinez walked through the living room.
"Do you see anything missing besides the furniture?"
"His television."
It had been mounted above the fireplace.
Only the bracket remained.
The gaming console was gone.
Two speakers were gone.
The leather recliner his mother gave us for Christmas was gone.
Marlene stared at the empty space.
"I gave him that chair."
I looked at her.
"At least he is consistent."
The words came out sharper than I intended.
Marlene nodded once.
"I earned that."
"No."
I rubbed my forehead.
"You didn't."
We walked toward the nursery.
I stopped in the doorway.
The crib was gone.
The changing table was gone.
Three sealed boxes of diapers were gone.
The rocking chair was gone.
The small bookshelf I had built with my father before he died was still there.
Gavin had never liked it.
I crossed the room and touched the top shelf.
One of the screws was loose.
My father had promised to fix it the next time he visited.
He died two weeks later.
I had never tightened it.
I think part of me liked knowing his hands had been the last ones to adjust it.
Marlene stood at the door.
"Did Gavin buy the crib?"
"We both did."
"The diapers?"
"Mostly me."
She closed her eyes briefly.
"I'm sorry."
I opened the closet.
My daughter's clothes still hung inside.
Tiny sleepers.
Soft cotton onesies.
A yellow sweater Marlene knitted badly and proudly.
The hospital bag was missing.
I spun around.
"My bag."
"What bag?"
"The hospital bag."
I checked the closet again as though it might reappear.
"It was right there."
Officer Martinez stepped closer.
"What was in it?"
"Clothes. Toiletries. Copies of my insurance card. My birth plan. My medication list."
I stopped.
"My spare house key."
Marlene's expression hardened.
"Anything else?"
"A folder."
"What kind of folder?"
"Our marriage certificate. Copies of both driver's licenses. The pre-registration forms for the hospital."
I had put everything together so Gavin would not have to search for paperwork if I went into labor suddenly.
I had made it easy for him.
Of course I had.
Officer Martinez took notes.
"Can you identify any property that is solely yours and missing?"
I thought about it.
"My laptop."
I hurried to our bedroom.
The charger was still on the nightstand.
The laptop was gone.
My jewelry box sat open on the dresser.
I crossed the room too fast.
The baby shifted hard inside me.
I caught the edge of the dresser.
"Slow down," Marlene said.
I ignored her.
My mother's earrings were there.
My silver necklace was there.
My wedding ring was on my hand.
But the small velvet pouch containing two hundred dollars in emergency cash was empty.
"He took cash."
Officer Martinez wrote it down.
Then I opened Gavin's closet.
Half his clothes were gone.
Not all.
His work suits remained.
His old shoes remained.
His winter coats remained.
But his best shirts, jeans, travel clothes, and expensive sneakers were missing.
This was not an impulsive trip to the airport.
He had packed.
I walked to his desk in the corner of the bedroom.
The top drawer was locked.
Gavin had texted me not to go through it.
I stared at the drawer.
Officer Martinez cleared his throat.
"If the desk is jointly owned household furniture, I can't tell you not to access it, but I also can't damage property for you."
I knew where Gavin kept the tiny spare key.
He thought I did not.
For years, he had hidden it behind the felt lining of an old watch box.
The watch box remained on the shelf.
The key was still inside.
My hands shook as I unlocked the drawer.
Marlene stood beside me.
Inside were three things.
A black notebook.
A stack of unopened mail addressed to me.
And a prepaid phone.
I picked up the mail first.
The oldest envelope was from our insurance company.
FINAL NOTICE.
The date was five weeks earlier.
My chest tightened.
I opened it.
Premium payment had not been received.
Coverage would terminate unless payment was made by the stated deadline.
I had never seen the letter.
The next envelope was from the same company.
NOTICE OF TERMINATION.
The third was from the credit card issuer.
My name was printed across the front.
The fourth was from a collection agency.
Also my name.
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
"He hid my mail."
Officer Martinez looked at the envelopes.
"Keep those with the report."
Marlene picked up the black notebook.
"May I?"
I nodded.
The first pages were ordinary.
Passwords crossed out.
Work reminders.
A grocery list.
Then the writing changed.
Numbers.
Dates.
Abbreviations.
BELL 1286.
ARIA 540.
CASH 1000.
MARKER 5000.
I looked at Marlene.
"What is a marker?"
She did not answer immediately.
"In a casino, it can mean credit."
I stared at the page.
There were five entries with the word MARKER.
Five thousand.
Three thousand.
Five thousand again.
Two thousand.
Ten thousand.
My mouth went dry.
"Twenty-five thousand dollars."
"That does not necessarily mean he owes all of it now," Marlene said.
"It means he was gambling."
She nodded.
"It looks that way."
I took the prepaid phone from the drawer.
It was powered off.
Officer Martinez held up a hand.
"If you think that device may contain evidence related to identity theft, I would recommend you not alter it."
I placed it on the desk.
"Can you take it?"
"Not without a basis to seize it right now."
"So I leave it here?"
"You can secure property from your own residence, but I recommend documenting where you found it."
Marlene photographed the drawer before we moved anything.
Then she photographed every envelope.
Every notebook page.
Every missing-space mark in the nursery.
For once, I did not tell her she was overreacting.
In the kitchen, I found another surprise.
A white envelope had been taped underneath the junk drawer.
I noticed it only because the drawer would not close completely.
Inside was a receipt from a self-storage company.
Unit 214.
Paid through the end of the month.
The customer name was Gavin Ellison.
The facility was less than four miles away.
Marlene looked at the receipt.
"The crib could be there."
"So could everything else."
Officer Martinez cautioned us not to enter a unit that was leased solely to Gavin without permission.
I understood.
I also photographed the receipt.
Then I went to the bathroom to get my prenatal vitamins.
My prescription bottle was gone.
I checked the cabinet twice.
Nothing.
"He took my medication too."
This time Officer Martinez stopped writing.
"What medication?"
"Iron supplements prescribed because I was anemic."
"Anything controlled?"
"No."
He nodded.
"You should call your doctor and pharmacy today."
I did.
The nurse arranged a replacement prescription.
Then I packed two bags of clothes.
I took my documents.
I took the ultrasound photograph.
I took my father's bookshelf after Officer Martinez helped us load it into Marlene's SUV.
Before leaving, I stood in the nursery one last time.
There was a small dent in the carpet where the crib had been.
I had spent months imagining my daughter asleep there.
Now the room looked stripped.
Not empty.
Stripped.
As though Gavin had wanted me to walk in and understand that he could take whatever he wanted before I even knew it was at risk.
My phone buzzed.
A voicemail from him.
I did not play it until we were in Marlene's car.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
"Audrey, I heard you went to the bank."
I looked at Marlene.
How had he heard already?
The voicemail continued.
"You're making decisions you don't understand."
A pause.
"You need to stop before you create a problem neither of us can fix."
Then his tone changed.
Lower.
"And don't take anything from my desk."
The message ended.
Marlene stared at my phone.
"How did he know you went to the bank?"
I looked back at the house.
Then at the security camera mounted over the garage.
The camera's tiny blue light was on.
I looked up at the camera again.
For months, Gavin had praised that system because it made the house safer.
He had added the camera after a package disappeared from our porch.
I had liked it then.
I had even thanked him.
Now the small blue light felt less like security and more like an eye.
Officer Martinez asked whether I had access to the camera account.
"I used to."
"Used to?"
"The app logged me out a few weeks ago. Gavin said there was an update."
Marlene looked at me sharply.
"Did you log back in?"
"I tried once. The password didn't work. He said he would fix it."
I had forgotten about it after that.
I was always forgetting small things because pregnancy had become a convenient explanation for every missing detail.
Keys misplaced.
Passwords forgotten.
Mail I could not remember seeing.
Gavin had started saying "pregnancy brain" so often that I began saying it too.
Officer Martinez wrote something down.
"Do you have any reason to believe cameras are inside the house?"
"No."
The answer came too quickly.
Then I remembered the white device on the nursery shelf.
"There is an air-quality sensor in the baby's room."
"Brand?"
"I don't know. Gavin bought it."
"Does it have a lens?"
I tried to picture it.
White square.
Tiny black circle.
A green light.
My skin prickled.
"Maybe."
Martinez looked toward the nursery.
"Don't touch it yet. Photograph it first."
Marlene pulled out her phone.
I felt suddenly foolish for all the times I had changed clothes in that room because the bedroom felt too warm.
Then I stopped myself.
If a device was recording, the shame did not belong to the person being recorded without knowledge.
That sentence was easy to think and difficult to believe.
I photographed the camera over the garage before we left.
Then I photographed the login screen on my phone showing I no longer had access.
The blue light stayed on.
Watching.
May you like
This time, however, I knew I was watching back.
Gavin had been watching us the entire time.
