Don't open the door tonight
I was wiping the counter when the phone buzzed, a single line of text flashing on the screen: "Don't open the door tonight."
My hand trembled, the wooden spoon slipping to the floor with a soft clatter.
The words felt like a cold breath on my neck, as if someone who knew the exact scar hidden beneath my sleeve was watching.
My mind raced back to St. Mercy, the night the lights went out in the operating room, the patient I couldn't save.
Alan had never mentioned that the hospital kept records of every surgeon's mistake, but the text implied he did.
I stared at the message, the silent kitchen amplifying the thud of my own heart.
Every instinct screamed to lock the bedroom door, to hide the part of me that still wore blood‑stained gloves in memory.
Yet the phone stayed on the countertop, its screen casting a pale glow on the tiled floor, as if daring me to answer.
Sergio Bennett arrives early
The hallway light hummed as I slipped behind the bedroom door, the wood cool against my palm.
Alan's footsteps echoed, his voice smooth, "Sergio, welcome!" He laughed a little too loudly, masking the tension that crackled between us.
I could hear the clink of glasses, Sergio's booming tone filling the living room, "Marion, your cooking is incredible."
My breath hitched; I pressed my back against the door, feeling the stale air of the bedroom press in.
Alan turned, his smile tightening, "She’s been... fragile since the accident." He glanced toward the bedroom, eyes darting.
There was a pause, a flicker of something like fear behind his practiced charm.
Sergio's gaze drifted, landing on my hand as I briefly emerged to fetch a bottle.
He stopped, his brow furrowing, "That scar… you used to work at St. Mercy, right?"
Alan's voice cut short, his smile vanished, and without a word he twisted the switch, plunging the room into darkness.
The lights died, the hum ceased, and I was left alone in a black void, the echo of Sergio's question hanging like a threat.
Sergio’s Unsettling Question
Alan ushered Sergio into the dim hallway, the scent of rosemary and boiled potatoes clinging to the air.
Marion’s hand brushed the cool brass knob as she slipped out for the wine, a thin, pale scar flashing briefly under the fluorescent light.
Sergio’s eyes lingered on the mark, sharp as a scalpel.
“That’s an interesting line,” he said, voice low, “Did you ever work at St. Mercy?”
Marion froze, the glass clinking against the tray, her throat tightening.
Alan forced a smile, gesturing toward the living room.
“You know, the new project at the clinic is demanding,” he replied, “but let’s not dig into old wounds tonight.”
His words stumbled; the smooth veneer cracked, and his pulse thudded louder than the ticking clock.
“Marion, perhaps we should keep the conversation light,” he added, eyes darting to the kitchen door.
She swallowed, the scar itching, and turned back to the wine, the glass trembling in her hand.
Marion Confronts the Truth
Adrenaline surged like a flash of scalpel light through her veins. She slipped the bedroom door shut behind her, heart hammering against her ribs.
