After His Mistress Locked My Son in the Dryer, My Husband Called Me Crazy

The fever hit me like a freight train around noon. One minute I was folding laundry in the kitchen of our Seattle home, the next I was gripping the counter, vision swimming, sweat pooling at the base of my spine. The thermometer read 104. I texted Cullen.

Me: I'm really sick. Can you come home?

Cullen: Melody needs to run errands. I promised I'd watch Camden. Can you hold down the fort?

I stared at the screen. Melody. Always Melody. His childhood sweetheart who'd moved into our guest room three months ago with her twin sons after her husband—allegedly—died. Three months of watching my husband light up around another woman. Three months of our daughter Sevyn going quiet at dinner. Three months of feeling like a ghost in my own house.

Me: I have a 104 fever. I can't watch four kids alone.

Cullen: Take some Tylenol. I'll be back by eight.

I didn't answer. My hands were shaking too hard to type.

By six o'clock, I was in bed, drenched in sweat, the ceiling spinning above me. Downstairs I could hear the kids—Sevyn's soft voice, Camden's sharp laugh, Oakley asking where Daddy was. I tried to get up. My legs wouldn't hold me. I collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, and told myself it was fine. They were fine. Just a few more hours.

I must have passed out.

When I opened my eyes again, the room was dark. My mouth tasted like copper. My skin felt like it was burning from the inside out. And somewhere below me, I heard the industrial dryer in the laundry room cycle on.

We'd bought that dryer when we moved in. Commercial-grade. Cullen insisted. "For all the kids' sports uniforms," he'd said. It was massive, loud, with a heavy industrial latch that locked automatically when it ran. I hated the sound of it—like something mechanical and hungry.

I heard it now, humming through the floorboards.

Something was wrong.

I dragged myself out of bed, gripping the doorframe, then the hallway wall. Each step felt like wading through water. My vision blurred at the edges. I made it to the stairs, held the railing with both hands, and descended one step at a time.

The laundry room door was open.

Camden stood beside the dryer, perfectly still, hands at his sides. He was staring at the porthole window. The machine was running.

I stumbled forward. "Camden, what—"

Then I saw it.

Through the small glass porthole, tumbling in the drum—clothes, towels, and a small body in a blue shirt.

Oakley's blue shirt.

The scream that came out of me didn't sound human. I lunged for the dryer, clawed at the latch. It was locked. The industrial mechanism wouldn't release while the cycle was running. I yanked harder, fingernails splitting against the metal. Blood smeared across the chrome handle.

"Oakley!" I slammed my fists against the porthole. His small form tumbled past the window again. Not moving. Not moving. "OAKLEY!"

I spun toward Camden. He was still standing there, calm, watching.

"What did you do?" My voice cracked. "What did you do?"

He blinked at me. "Mommy said to play the quiet game."

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. I turned back to the dryer, yanked the power cord from the wall. The drum slowed but didn't stop—some kind of internal momentum. I clawed at the latch again, sobbing, fingers slipping in my own blood.

The room tilted.

My knees hit the tile.

I reached for the dryer door one more time, hand outstretched, and then everything went black.

---

When I opened my eyes, I was still on the laundry room floor. The tile was cold against my cheek. The dryer was silent now.

I tried to sit up. My body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. I braced myself against the machine, pulled myself upright, and looked at the porthole.

The door was still sealed.

The latch was still jammed.

No one had opened it.

Panic exploded in my chest. I staggered out of the laundry room, into the hallway, gripping the wall for balance. My throat was raw. My hands were still bleeding.

"Oakley!" I screamed. "OAKLEY!"

I stumbled into the living room. Cullen was on the couch. Melody sat beside him, her hand on his arm. Camden was curled against her side. Sevyn stood in the corner, small and frozen.

Cullen looked up at me. His face was cold.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he said.

I couldn't speak. Couldn't form words. I pointed back toward the laundry room, mouth open, trying to make him understand.

Melody's eyes were red. Tears streaked her face. "She attacked Camden," she whispered. "She was screaming at him. I've never seen her like that."

Cullen stood. "You attacked a six-year-old?"

"No—" My voice came out broken, barely a rasp. "Oakley—he's in the dryer—"

Cullen's expression didn't change. He didn't move toward the laundry room. He stepped toward me.

"You're delirious," he said. "You need to calm down."

"He's in the dryer!" I screamed. "Camden locked him in the dryer!"

Melody let out a soft sob. Cullen's jaw tightened.

And he didn't go check.

He looked at me like I was the problem.