“Give them back, Landon,” I said, my voice rising.

I tried to step toward him, but a sharp pain flared in my abdomen.

I gasped and held Rowan tighter.

“It is for your own good,” Patricia said.

She picked up her purse from the barstool.

“We will keep your phone so you aren’t tempted to call us every five minutes with fake emergencies.”

“If you really need something, the house is secure.”

“Landon, stop,” I cried.

“This is my phone.”

“My ID is in that wallet.”

“How am I supposed to take him to the doctor?”

Landon looked at his mother, then back at me.

He looked slightly uncomfortable, but he did not hand them back.

“The pediatrician said he is fine on Tuesday,” Landon said.

“Just feed him.”

“We will be back on Tuesday morning.”

“Landon!” I screamed.

Rowan stirred in my arms, his tiny chest heaving.

Patricia grabbed Landon’s arm.

“Let’s go, sweetheart,” she said.

“She is just trying to make a scene.”

They walked toward the heavy oak front door of our suburban home.

Landon wheeled his suitcase behind him.

I followed them to the foyer, my legs shaking under my sweatpants.

Every step felt like walking on broken glass.

“Please,” I sobbed.

“Don’t leave us like this.”

Landon opened the front door.

The thick, humid North Carolina heat rolled into the air-conditioned hallway.

He stepped outside onto the porch.

Patricia followed him, her heels clicking on the concrete.

She turned around and looked at me one last time.

“Get some sleep, Marissa,” she said.

Landon pulled the heavy door shut.

I heard the distinct, heavy click of the deadbolt sliding into place from the outside.

Then I heard the secondary padlock click.

They had locked me in.

The house fell completely silent, except for the soft, rapid rattling of my baby’s breath.