It wasn’t imagination.
It was fear—raw, urgent, and far too real for a child her age.
I was at the kitchen sink, rinsing a coffee mug, pretending the quiet in the house meant peace. Thirty minutes earlier, Ethan had kissed my forehead, dragged his suitcase across the floor, and promised he’d be back Sunday night.
He’d smiled.
Not warmly.
Relieved.
Now Mia stood in the doorway, barefoot, shaking.
“Why would we leave?” I asked, trying to keep things light.
Her eyes filled with tears. “We don’t have time,” she whispered. “I heard Dad last night. He said today is the day… and we won’t be here when it’s done.”
My chest tightened.
“What did he say exactly?”
She swallowed hard. “He told someone to make it look like an accident… then he laughed.”
Everything inside me went cold.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t think.
“Okay,” I said. “We’re leaving.”
I grabbed my purse, stuffed in cash, IDs, my phone charger. No coats. No toys. Only what mattered.
Mia hovered by the door. “Hurry…”
I reached for the handle—
CLICK.
The deadbolt slammed shut on its own.
The security panel lit up.