Part 1
My sister called at 12:08 a.m.
I almost let it ring.
Beside me, my husband Caleb slept soundly. Rain tapped against the windows, and the baby monitor glowed green from Noah’s empty nursery—he was spending the weekend with Caleb’s parents.
But Mara never called this late unless something was wrong.
I answered in a whisper.
“Mara?”
Her voice was clipped. “Listen carefully. Turn everything off. Lights, phone—everything. Go to the attic. Lock the door. Don’t tell Caleb.”
A chill spread through me. “What?”
“Now, Elise.”
I glanced at my husband’s steady breathing.
“You’re scaring me,” I whispered.
Her voice snapped. “Just do it!”
I moved before I could think.
Switching off lights one by one, I crept toward the attic. Mara stayed on the line, silent except for her breathing.
At the top of the stairs, she whispered, “Do not hang up.”
I latched the attic door.
“Stay away from the window.”
Then the call dropped.
For one awful minute, nothing.
Then Caleb’s voice downstairs—calm, alert.
“Lights are off.”
Another man answered.
“Then she knows.”
Through a crack in the floorboards, I saw Caleb holding my laptop. Beside him, a stranger in a black raincoat handed over a case.
Inside were three passports.
One for Caleb. One for Noah. One for me.
None with our names.
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