Six-year-old Ethan was on his knees in the freezing rain, desperately feeding the horses while begging his stepmother through tears: “Mom… please don’t hit me. I’m feeding them…”

The kitchen of the ranch house was brightly lit, casting harsh shadows across the pine cabinets that Daniel had built with his own hands five years ago. He sat Ethan on the wooden counter, wrapping him in three heavy wool blankets while pressing a mug of warm milk between his small, trembling hands.

"Drink this slowly, buddy," Daniel murmured, kneeling beside him and rubbing the boy's icy feet. "You're safe now. I'm right here."

Ethan nodded, taking a small, hesitant sip of the milk, his wide eyes darting toward the doorway every time the wind rattled the windowpanes.

"Did she go outside again?" Ethan whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator.

"No, she's in the master bedroom," Daniel replied softly, though he kept his ears tuned to any sound from the hallway. "Ethan, I need you to listen to me very carefully. You don't have to be afraid of her anymore. But you need to tell me the truth about what happened tonight. Why were you out by Stall Four?"

Ethan lowered his head, staring down at the surface of the milk as a tear slipped down his cheek.

"She was looking for the metal box," Ethan whispered, his voice trembling.

Daniel furrowed his brow, leaning in closer. "What metal box, buddy?"

"The one hidden behind the feed sacks," Ethan said, looking up with genuine fear in his eyes. "The one that belonged to the lady who lived here before us. Mommy Claire said if I ever told anyone she was digging in the dirt by the old fence, she would make sure Daddy went away to the bad place and never came back."

Daniel felt the air leave his lungs as if he had been punched in the stomach. The "lady who lived here before us" wasn't Sarah—Sarah was the one who bought the ranch with him. The previous owner had been an elderly widow named Martha Vance, who had mysteriously vanished three years ago, leaving the property up for a rapid, below-market sale that Daniel had jumped on at the time. The police had ruled it a voluntary disappearance, citing old age and wandering.

Before Daniel could ask another question, the kitchen doorway creaked open. Claire stood there, having changed into a silk bathrobe, her blonde hair falling loosely over her shoulders. She looked entirely composed, as if she hadn't just been standing in a freezing barn terrorizing a child twenty minutes prior.

"You're keeping him up past midnight with these wild interrogations," Claire said, leaning against the doorframe with a practiced sigh. "Daniel, let him sleep. You're feeding into his delusions."

Daniel stood up slowly, towering over her by a foot, his eyes burning with an intensity that made Claire take an involuntary half-step back.

"Martha Vance," Daniel said quietly, watching her face for any micro-expression. "What did you have to do with Martha Vance, Claire?"

Claire's posture stiffened instantly, though her voice remained steady. "Who? That old woman who sold us the ranch? What on earth does she have to do with any of this?"

"Ethan just mentioned a metal box hidden behind the feed sacks," Daniel said, stepping closer to her. "The one you were digging for tonight in the freezing rain. Why were you searching for Martha's things, Claire?"

"The child is hallucinating from the cold," Claire snapped, her voice sharpening with a defensive edge that she couldn't entirely mask. "You're interrogating a six-year-old and treating his fever dreams like gospel truth. If you're going to cross-examine me like a criminal in my own kitchen, I'm going to bed."

She turned on her heel to walk away, but Daniel reached out and caught her by the wrist. As his fingers gripped her arm, Claire winced, and her sleeve hitched up slightly, revealing a deep, fresh scratch across her forearm—surrounded by dark purple bruises in the exact shape of human fingers.