Pale.
Sweaty.
Scared.
Too quiet for a nine-year-old.
A signal bar appeared on the wall of the hallway.
I dialed 911.
The call was cut off.
I tried again.
Nothing.
He got in on the third try.
The operator answered, and my voice came out broken, low, almost alien, but enough to push the truth to the other side.
—My husband hurt us. My son and I are still alive. We need help. Fast.
The operator’s voice changed instantly.
He asked me for the address.
He asked me if he was still there.
I told him no, that he had left, that he had spoken on the phone, that he would return, that I didn’t trust how much time we had.
He asked us to lock ourselves in a room if we could.
I dragged Tommy to the master bedroom bathroom.
I locked it.
I sat him down against the tub and moistened his lips with the few drops of water I could gather in a glass.
I asked him to look at me, to keep breathing, not to fall asleep, to think about anything, about his school, about his imaginary dog, about his favorite video game, about me.
While I was answering the operator’s questions, my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
CHECK THE TRASH. THERE’S EVIDENCE. COME BACK.
I read the message three times.
He had no name.
There was no explanation.
Only that dry urgency that somehow seemed to come from someone who knew exactly what was happening and, for his own reasons, had decided to intervene from the shadows.
In the distance, sirens began to sound.
Tommy squeezed my hand desperately.
I was about to believe that help would arrive in time, that the horror had already shown its worst face, when I heard something that chilled me to the bone.
The front doorknob.
Turning again.
Steven had returned.
And he wasn’t alone.
There were two steps.
A female voice whispered something I couldn’t understand.
Then Steven’s, lower, more tense, less confident than before.
—We have to do it right. Nothing can be left out.
