I wasn’t supposed to be home that afternoon. But when my 5-year-old son said our nanny liked to “hide” in my bedroom and lock the door, and that it was their little secret, I didn’t wait for answers. I drove home early, and what I saw confirmed every fear I had been trying not to name.I was standing in my hallway, and I couldn’t get into my own bedroom. The door was locked from the inside. Soft music was bleeding through the gap at the bottom, low and unhurried, like someone had made themselves very comfortable in there.

My five-year-old, Mason, was tugging at my sleeve. “Don’t open it, Mom. It’s our secret.”

My hand went still on the door handle.

Something shifted inside the room. A muffled laugh. I was never supposed to be home this early.

And whoever was in that room knew it. It had started three days ago at the kitchen sink. It was a Thursday evening, ordinary in every way.

I was rinsing dishes after dinner when Mason came bounding in, eyes bright, still buzzing with whatever energy five-year-olds run on at the end of a long day. “Mommy, let’s play hide-and-seek like Alice plays with me!” he said breathlessly, skidding to a stop beside me. I smiled and kept scrubbing.

“Sure, baby. Where do you want to hide?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder at him. He got quiet then.

Too quiet for a kid who’d been bouncing off the walls 30 seconds earlier. “Just… don’t hide in your bedroom, okay? I’ll find you there right away,” he said, staring down at the tile.

I turned off the faucet and dried my hands slowly. “Why would I hide in there, Mason?”

He stared at the floor. “Because that’s where Alice always hides.

She locks herself in, and I hear noises. But it’s our secret, Mom. I promised her,” he added, his voice dropping on the last words.

My dish towel hit the counter, and every instinct I had fired at once. I crouched down to his level. “Sweetheart, how often does Alice hide in my room?”