Before I could respond, the knocking came again—harder.

“Claire, open the door,” the voice said. “What’s taking so long?”

Something about Emily’s panic stopped me. She wasn’t dramatic. She never lied for attention. My heart began to race.

She pulled me toward the kitchen, and without thinking, I followed. We squeezed into the cupboard under the sink, knees pressed against cleaning bottles, the sharp smell of detergent filling my nose. I held my breath as the front door opened.

Keys jingled.
The door closed.

“Hello?” the voice called from inside. “Claire? Emily?”

My chest tightened. The footsteps were wrong. My husband dragged his foot slightly from an old injury. These steps were smooth. Even.

Emily covered her mouth as tears streamed down her face.

Then my phone vibrated in my pocket.

Daniel: Just landed. Taxi now. See you soon.

My blood turned to ice.

The man inside our house wasn’t my husband.

Through the narrow crack in the cupboard door, I saw black boots step into the kitchen—boots Daniel didn’t own. The cupboard handle slowly began to turn.

I covered Emily’s mouth as the door creaked open. A tall stranger stared back at us, clean-shaven, wearing a jacket almost identical to Daniel’s.

“Found you,” he said calmly, smiling.Continue reading…