Whale Song Lost in the Fog

The gas fire at home raged, trapping my son Grant in his room. Thick smoke poured from beneath the door.

My husband, Fire Captain Nicholas, charged toward me, roaring.

"Quinn! Have you lost your fucking mind?! Open the door!"

I didn’t.

Calmly, I turned to face him and the colleagues at his back.

"He's always been so fascinated by fire. Let him get a closer look."

"All he ever does is make noise. Let the fire silence him for good. Then we can try for a quiet little girl."

.......

"Quinn! Do you have any idea what you're doing?! That's our son in there!"

Nicholas’s eyes were bloodshot and raw. In his heavy gear, he was stopped by me—a thin woman—blocking the doorway.

I stood planted before Grant’s bedroom door, a wall of searing heat and choking smoke at my back.

Faint coughs came from inside, each one a fresh twist of the knife in my chest.

But my expression was ice. An eerie smile even touched my lips.

"All he ever does is make noise. Let the fire silence him for good. Then we can try for a quiet little girl," I said, my voice light, almost airy.

*Smack!*

A sharp, stinging slap cracked across my face.

Not from Nicholas. From my mother-in-law, Ruby, who had rushed forward.

She pointed a trembling finger at my nose, her whole body shaking. "You vicious witch! You lunatic! That’s your own flesh and blood—the only male heir! Heaven will strike you down for this!"

Nicholas’s crew surged forward. They pulled me aside, their tools making quick work of the door.

Then Nicholas charged in like a gust of wind. Moments later, he rushed out, cradling a half-conscious Grant.

"Now! Get him to the hospital! He’s inhaled too much!"

Chaos erupted.

A young firefighter held me against the wall in a corner, his gaze the kind you’d give to trash.

I didn’t struggle. I just watched quietly as Nicholas ran past me with our son in his arms.

He didn’t even glance my way. The disgust and ice in that single look burned hotter than the fire behind me.

Soon, the police arrived.

Handcuffs snapped around my wrists. I was led away from the place once called home.

In the back of the patrol car, I watched through the rearview mirror. The apartment building still belched black smoke. Below, the crowd pointed, their faces twisted with condemnation.

Inside me—nothing. A numb, hollow silence. Absolute and dead.

I’d known it the moment I made that choice. My life was over.

The interrogation room lights were a blinding, sterile white.

"Name."

"Quinn."

"Age."

"Thirty-one."

"You know why you’re here?"

I lifted my head, met the officer’s gaze across the table, and offered a faint, twisted smile. "I do. They say I tried to murder my own son."

"Then why did you do it?" The younger officer slammed his hand on the table. "Even a cornered animal protects its young, Quinn. What’s wrong with you?"

I stayed silent.

What could I say?

That it was all an act?

That I was the one being pushed into the abyss?

No. Not yet.

I had to wait. For my star witness to show up.