I almost ignored it.
My husband, Caleb Morrison, was asleep beside me in our house just outside Arlington, Virginia. Rain tapped steadily against the bedroom windows, and the baby monitor on my nightstand glowed green from our son’s empty nursery. Noah was spending the weekend with Caleb’s parents, which was the only reason I had managed to sleep at all.
When I saw my sister’s name, I pushed myself upright.
Mara.
Mara worked for the FBI. She never called this late unless someone had died or something terrible was about to happen.
I answered in a whisper. “Mara?”
Her voice was tense. “Listen carefully. Turn everything off. Your phone, the lights, everything. Go to the attic, lock the door, and don’t tell Caleb.”
A chill ran through me. “What?”
“Now, Elise.”
I glanced at my husband. He lay facing away, breathing slow and steady.
“You’re scaring me,” I whispered.
Mara’s voice snapped into a shout. “Just do it!”
I moved before I could question it.
I slipped out of bed, grabbed my phone charger without thinking, and crept into the hallway. Behind me, Caleb shifted.
“Elise?” he murmured.
I froze.
“I’m getting water,” I said.
