My husband made dinner that night, and seconds after my son and I finished eating, we collapsed. I forced myself to lie still as if unconscious, and that’s when I heard him whisper on the phone, “It’s done. They’ll both be gone soon.”

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. I heard the front door open. Cold night air rushed into the house before the door clicked shut again. His footsteps faded away.

I still couldn’t move properly.

But I wasn’t alone.

“Caleb,” I whispered.

A tiny hand found mine.

His fingers twitched, then squeezed.

He was awake.

That was all that mattered.

Slowly, painfully, I opened my eyes. The microwave clock glowed in the dark kitchen.

8:42 p.m.

My hands trembled as I reached for my phone. I had to call for help.

The screen lit up.

No service.

Of course. Marcus had joked for years about the terrible reception in the living room. I had never imagined that one weak signal could become the thin line between life and death.

I dragged myself across the floor inch by inch. Caleb crawled behind me, silent and shaking. By the time we reached the hallway, one fragile bar appeared.

I dialed 911.

The call failed.

I tried again.

Another failure.

Then my phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

“Check the trash. You will find proof. He is coming back.”

I froze.

Before I could understand what I was reading, footsteps echoed downstairs. The front door opened again.

Two voices drifted through the house.

One was Marcus.

“You told me they’d be out.”