My Husband Killed His Own Son Thinking It Was Mine Chapter 2

The pony costume began to shake again, and a muffled, frantic sound came from inside.

"Let me go, let me go..."

Savannah's son shrieked with excitement.

"Bury him! Bury him up to his head!"

The children obeyed instantly. Snow chunks quickly covered the pony's back, then its legs.

The costume was still struggling, but the movements were becoming weaker and weaker.

Even though it wasn't my son, it was still a person.

My conscience wouldn't allow me to stand by and watch.

"Make the children stop! Burying someone in the snow is dangerous!"

I jumped up and yelled, but everyone around me simply laughed it off.

Aunt Carol nonchalantly cracked a sunflower seed.

"Oh, come on. What kind of trouble can kids get into? We all played like this when we were little."

Tiffany handed me a cup of hot tea, her smile sweet and gentle.

"Leo isn't even asking them to stop, Amy. Why are you so worried? Let them have their fun."

Helen gently patted my shoulder.

"Amy, your mother-in-law needs to say this. Boys need to be toughened up; don't make him so soft. Look at Ryan when he was a boy—all that roughhousing, and he turned out fine."

Every word was so familiar.

They had said the exact same things in the previous life.

Ryan sat down next to me, lowering his voice in a warning tone.

"Amy, if you make a scene, you're embarrassing me. It's a holiday; don't ruin the party for all the relatives."

I stared at him, feeling utterly disconnected.

His eyes held no concern, no urgency, only impatient, cold reproach.

"Aren't you worried?" My voice was trembling.

"What if something goes wrong? That's your son."

Ryan chuckled, a dismissive, dry sound.

"You're too stressed. Nothing is going to happen."

A deep, chilling thought began to take root in my mind.

From Savannah pulling me away, to Aunt Carol and Tiffany blocking me, to Helen's dismissive advice, and now Ryan's heavy-handed control.

It was too smooth, too coordinated.

It felt like a perfectly rehearsed play, where everyone knew their lines and their positions.

Could they be doing this on purpose?

The idea was terrifying, and I shivered uncontrollably.

Outside, the snow was still falling, and the pony costume hadn't moved in a while.

Savannah glanced at the clock and called toward the yard.

"Okay, time's up... everyone come back inside for lunch!"

The children ran back toward the house. Taking advantage of the sudden chaos, I darted outside.

Hold on, kid. You've got to hold on. I prayed silently.

I clawed the snow away with my bare hands. A small arm slid out of the costume's sleeve.

The hand was tiny, about the size of a seven or eight-year-old's.

It lay limply on the snow, the skin a disturbing blue-tinged purple.

The relatives immediately gathered around, and when they saw the scene, a stunned silence fell over them.

Someone finally whispered.

"Is... is he dead?"