It was 6:04 a.m.
Their new life, the one with Lia, was built on an 'A-type' precision that had been impossible during their 15 years of grief. Now, they were a SEAL team of two, operating on a 24-hour cycle that began at 5:30 a.m.
Eunice was at the kitchen island, her hair in a sleek, tight bun, her laptop open. She was reviewing a quarterly report for a client, her lips moving silently, while her left hand expertly screwed the top onto a blue sippy cup of apple juice.
Karlman was at the door, pulling on his shoes. He was already on his Bluetooth earpiece, his voice a low, urgent hum. "No, the redundancy failed? That's impossible. The triple-check on the new codec was... what?"
He was weary. He'd been up until 2 a.m. with this exact crisis—a server migration for his biggest client that had gone, in technical terms, "sideways." He was running on four hours of sleep and a triple-shot of espresso.
"Dada!"
A new sound. Lia, now two and a half, toddled into the kitchen, a whirlwind in pink footie pajamas, her dark hair a sleep-tangled mess. She was the perfect, chaotic variable in their controlled, glass-walled world.
Karlman's entire face softened. The "CEO" vanished, and the "Dada" remained. He muted his call.
"Hey, my girl," he crouched, holding out his arms. She ran into them, burying her face in his neck, all warm-baby and sleep-sweat.
"No go, Dada," she mumbled into his skin. "Stay. Play."
"I can't, bug," he whispered, kissing her wild hair. "Dada's... Dada's gotta fix the
computer. I'll be home early. I promise. We'll play 'monster'."
He stood, and Lia immediately pouted. It was a new, devastatingly effective weapon she had developed.
Eunice, not looking up from her report, slid the blue sippy cup across the counter. "Lia. Juice."
Lia, mission diverted, toddled to the island for her cup.
Karlman unmuted his call. "Listen to me, Ben. I'm on my way in. Do not run the rollback until I get there. Do you hear me? Do not..."
He walked out the front door into the pre-dawn gray.
Eunice's gaze flickered from her screen. She watched him walk to the car—a high-end, silent, electric sedan. She watched him get in, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone, his earpiece a blue, blinking star in the dark. He was still talking, his expression tight.
He was distracted. He was weary. He was the "A-type."
And then she saw it.
Lia, who had taken her sippy cup, had not stopped. She had seen "Dada" leave. And in her 2-year-old brain, a new, wonderful game had just been invented.
She toddled, silently, to the front door, which Karlman hadn't fully latched. She pushed it open. She giggled, a tiny, breathy sound.
Eunice's head snapped up. "Lia?"
Lia, believing this was the game, ran out onto the gravel driveway. "Hide!" she squealed, her voice a tiny bell. "Hide, Dada!"
She ran to the back of the silent, waiting car. The perfect hiding spot.
Eunice's blood turned to ice.
It all happened in the slow-motion, liquid-horror-time of true tragedy.
She saw Lia disappear behind the dark sedan.
She saw Karlman, in the driver's seat, his face angry, jabbing at his phone.
She saw the red-pinprick reverse lights of the car switch on.
Eunice opened her mouth. The sippy cup she'd been meaning to grab from the counter fell, striking the marble floor. It didn't break. It just... bounced.
"KARLMAN! NO!"
Her voice was a primal, animal sound that didn't seem to come from her. It was a sound that shattered the glass walls of their perfect, sterile house.
But the windows of the sedan were soundproof.
He was on his call.
The car was silent.
She was already running, but it was like running through water.
The car moved. Not fast. Just... a slow, inevitable, electric glide.
And then there was a sound. Or, rather, a feeling. A soft, sickening thump. A crunch.
Karlman stopped the car. He felt it.
He looked up, annoyed. 'A raccoon?' his 'A-type' brain supplied. 'A branch? Did I hit the recycle bin?'
He was still on his call. "Ben, hold on a sec," he said, his voice flat with annoyance.
He opened his door and stepped out, looking under the car.
And he saw a flash of pink.
Eunice was ten feet away, her feet sliding on the gravel, her hands outstretched.
Karlman Dowman, the 38-year-old boy-genius, the man who had built a dynasty from nothing, the man who had stared down his family, his church, and his God, looked down at the pink footie pajamas and the tangle of dark hair.
And he began to scream.
It was not a human sound. It was the sound of a man's soul being ripped from his body. It was the sound of a universe ending.
Eunice reached him. She fell to her knees on the gravel. She didn't look at Karlman. She didn't look at what was under the car.
She just looked at the blue sippy cup, lying on its side, a small, steady, sticky-sweet stream of apple juice flowing from its "no-spill" lid, mixing with the dark, wet gravel of the driveway.
She looked at it. And she just... stopped