They had a way of hiding the worst things, like polished veneers over festering rot. And Westbrook Lane, with its quiet, manicured lawns and white picket fences, was as perfect as they came. Yet, it was in such places that secrets festered and broke wide open, often in the most horrifying of ways.
Number 47 was no exception.
Thorne stood on the curb, eyeing the house across the street, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his overcoat. The house gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight, with roses that looked like they belonged in a garden magazine and a pristine white porch where no one had ever dared to sit. It was the kind of house that made people feel safe—and that’s exactly why the call he received seemed so impossible.
Mrs. Higgins, an elderly neighbor with a penchant for gossip and a voice that was more shushed than whispered, had left a message that had sent him to this street.
“She’s gone,” Mrs. Higgins had said. “The pregnant one, Emily Evans. She disappeared, but… she’s still there, you know? She’s still there, but something’s wrong.”
Thorne had no idea what “wrong” meant, but when an elderly woman called about a pregnant woman missing in plain sight, he knew it was worth checking out.
The Evans family had lived in that house for three years, and no one in the neighborhood had ever said a word about them. From what Thorne could gather, Emily and her husband, Mark, were the perfect couple, just like the house. Emily was friendly, kind, and always willing to lend a hand, and Mark was a lawyer who worked long hours but was always polite and well-groomed.
