My sister called me at 12:08 a.m.

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.

He didn’t respond.

I switched off the hallway light, then the kitchen, then the living room lamp Caleb always left on. My hands trembled so badly I nearly dropped my phone. Mara stayed on the line, silent except for her breathing.

At the attic stairs, she whispered, “Do not hang up.”

I climbed slowly, each wooden step creaking beneath my bare feet. The attic smelled of dust, insulation, and old holiday boxes. I shut the door behind me and slid the small latch into place.

“Lock it,” Mara said.

“I did.”

“Stay away from the window.”

Then the call dropped.

For one long, awful minute, nothing happened.

Then I heard Caleb’s voice downstairs.

No longer sleepy.

Calm.

“Lights are off,” he said.

Another man answered from inside my house.

“Then she knows.”

My hand flew to my mouth.

Through a narrow gap in the attic floorboards, I could see part of the hallway below. Caleb stood there in sweatpants, my laptop tucked under one arm.

Beside him stood a stranger in a black raincoat.

The stranger handed Caleb a small case.

Caleb opened it, revealing three passports.

One had my husband’s photo.

One had my son’s.

The third had mine.

But none of them carried our names….

Part 2:

I crouched in the attic, dust scratching my throat and fear pressing so tightly against my chest I could barely breathe.

Below me, Caleb set the passports on the hallway table.