She looked around nervously, then pulled a phone from her pocket. Not hers. A phone I had never seen before. Her small voice trembled. “Mom, look at this…”
When the screen lit up, my breath stopped cold.
The string lights above the garden glowed softly as guests laughed and swayed to music. My sister Harper twirled with her new husband, radiant in her gown, while the DJ played their favorite song. Everything felt perfect—until my seven-year-old daughter, Lila, tugged at my hand with a desperate grip.
“Mom… we have to leave. Now,” she whispered.
I crouched, trying to stay calm. “Why, baby? Are you sick?”
She shook her head hard. Her eyes darted around before she held up the unfamiliar phone.
“Mom… look.”
A paused video filled the screen—our front door, recorded from a low angle. My stomach knotted. With shaking fingers, I pressed play.
A hooded figure approached our home, trying the doorknob… then pulling out lock-picking tools. When the person turned slightly, the timestamp glared at me:
Today. 6:42 PM.
Exactly when we arrived at the wedding.
“How did you get this?” I whispered.