I forced my eyes open just a sliver. The microwave clock read 8:42 PM. My hands trembled as I searched for my phone.
No signal.
Of course.
I dragged myself across the floor, inch by inch. Noah crawled behind me, silent and shaking. By the hallway, I caught a flicker of reception.
I dialed 911.
Failed.
Again.
Failed.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message. Unknown number.
“Check the trash. Proof is there. He’s coming back.”
My blood ran cold.
Before I could process it, the front door creaked again.
Voices.
Caleb—and someone else.
“You said they’d be out,” the second voice muttered.
“They are,” Caleb replied, but there was tension in his tone.
I grabbed Noah and pulled him into the bathroom, locking the door behind us.
Then—finally—the call connected.
“The police are on their way,” the dispatcher said calmly. “Stay where you are.”
The next minutes felt endless.
Then—
BANG.
“Police! Open the door!”
Noah clung to me, trembling.
“Are we going to be okay?” he whispered.
I didn’t know.
But I had to believe it.
“Stay quiet,” I told him.
Footsteps filled the house. Commands. Movement.
Then Caleb’s voice again—tight, frustrated:
“She called. She’s alive.”
So he hadn’t expected that.
Good.
Then the door handle turned.