NOAH
The Bennett family home looked exactly the same as it always did.
Pristine. Immaculate. Suffocating.
A typical two-story suburban house with cream-colored siding and a perfectly manicured lawn that my father mowed every Saturday morning without fail. The kind of house that looked warm and inviting from the outside, like something out of a catalog for the American Dream.
But I knew better.
I stood at the front door, shopping bags in hand, staring at the brass knocker like it might bite me.
My stomach was in knots. My chest felt tight. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, get back in my car, and drive as far away as possible.
But I didn't.
Because I never did.
I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and pushed the door open.
The living room hit me like a slap to the face.
