Chapter 1 - The Warning
The House Was No Longer Safe
At 2:00 a.m., my phone lit up with a message from Dad.
“Grab your sister and run. Don’t trust your mother.”
I read it once.
Then again.
My hands went cold.
My father, Adrian, was the least dramatic person I knew. He checked the locks every night. He texted when his flights landed. He called me before school if he thought it might rain because he knew I always forgot an umbrella.
He did not send messages like this.
He did not tell people to run.
And he never, ever warned me about my mother.
I sat upright in bed, staring at those two sentences until the letters seemed to blur.
Then another thought hit me.
Where was Dad?
He had said he was working late.
That wasn't unusual. He sometimes stayed at the office until midnight when a deadline was close. But he always came home before dawn.
Tonight, he hadn't.
I threw on a hoodie, shoved my feet into sneakers, grabbed my backpack, and slipped into the hallway.
The house looked exactly the same as it had three minutes earlier.
That was the worst part.
White walls.
Family photographs.
The grandfather clock near the staircase.
The faint glow from the television downstairs.
And my mother's wineglass making a soft little clink whenever she shifted on the couch.
Normal.
Too normal.
I was seventeen.
My sister Ivy was twelve.
And suddenly every familiar object in our house felt like part of a crime scene.
I crept to Ivy's bedroom.
She was asleep beside an unfinished book, glasses resting on the nightstand, dark hair spread across her pillow.
“Ivy.”
Nothing.
I touched her shoulder.
She stirred.
“Ivy, wake up.”
Her eyes opened slowly.
“What?”
I covered her mouth gently.
“Don't talk.”
That woke her.
She stared at me.
I whispered, “Dad texted me. We have to leave.”
Her expression changed instantly.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“Is Dad okay?”
“I don't know.”
She looked at me for a long second.
That answer terrified her more than anything else could have.
I helped her into a hoodie and stuffed her inhaler, water bottle, phone, and favorite book into her backpack.
Then I looked toward the hallway.
Downstairs, the television was still playing.
Mom had been watching a crime documentary when I went to bed.
I'd noticed little things about her lately.
Her phone was always face down.
Her laptop was locked even when she stepped away for thirty seconds.
Her work dinners never quite matched the stories she told afterward.
Sometimes Dad would stop talking when she entered a room.
Sometimes they'd argue behind closed doors.
And sometimes, during breakfast, Dad would look at Ivy and me as though he wanted to say something but couldn't find a safe way to say it.
I'd explained all of it away.
Families fought.
Parents kept secrets.
Adults got stressed.
But now Dad had written four words I couldn't explain away.
Don’t trust your mother.
I opened Ivy's window.
Cold air spilled into the room.
The backyard below was dark.
I'd climbed out of this window before.
Tonight it looked like another planet.
I pushed the screen outward.
It landed softly in the mulch.
Ivy climbed onto the sill.
“Is Mom in trouble?” she whispered.
“I don't know.”
“Is Dad?”
“I don't know.”
She swallowed.
I helped her lower one leg outside.
Then I heard a floorboard creak behind us.
Heavy.
Close.
We froze.
Another creak.
Closer.
I looked over my shoulder.
The bedroom door was still open.
But the hallway beyond it was dark.
Downstairs, the television continued playing.
No footsteps.
No voices.
Then the television stopped.
Silence swallowed the house.
Someone had turned it off.
Ivy squeezed my wrist.
“Lyra…”
“Go.”
She climbed down.
I dropped into the mulch and caught her.
Then I looked toward the back fence.
At first I saw nothing.
Then something moved.
A shape beside the old oak tree.
Too tall to be a person standing casually.
Too still.
I froze.
The figure seemed to be looking directly at our window.
Ivy whispered, “Who's that?”
I didn't answer.
The figure took one slow step toward the house.
I grabbed Ivy's hand.
“Run.”
We crossed the backyard.
Then we heard a door slam upstairs.
We didn't look back.
We hit the sidewalk, turned left, and ran toward the convenience store three blocks away.
Cold air burned my lungs.
Ivy stumbled twice.
I kept pulling her forward.
The store's fluorescent lights appeared at the end of the street.
They looked almost beautiful.
We rushed inside.
The clerk behind the register glanced up once, then returned to his phone.
We moved to the back near the refrigerators.
My phone buzzed.
Mom.
I stared at the screen.
Another buzz.
Then another.
“Where are you girls?”
“I heard something upstairs.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Answer me now.”
“This isn't funny.”
Ivy leaned against me.
“She sounds angry.”
“Yeah.”
Mom called.
I put her on speaker.
“Lyra, honey.”
Her voice sounded soft.
Worried.
Almost perfect.
“Where are you? Why would you take your sister outside in the middle of the night? You're scaring me.”
I stared at the glass doors.
“Dad texted us.”
Silence.
“He told us to leave the house.”
Another silence.
“He said not to trust you.”
Mom gave a small laugh.
“Oh, sweetheart. Your father isn't well.”
I felt something inside me tighten.
“He's been paranoid,” she continued. “He's imagining things. I didn't want to scare you girls, but he hasn't been thinking clearly.”
“Then let me talk to him.”
Her breathing stopped.
Then her voice changed.
“Tell me where you are right now.”
Not a question.
A command.
I ended the call.
Ivy immediately powered off her phone.
I did the same.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then my phone buzzed again.
The screen should have been dark.
Instead, an unknown number appeared.
I opened it.
“This is Special Agent Rowan Blake. Your father asked me to contact you if anything happened to him.”
My pulse jumped.
Ivy gripped my sleeve.
“Lyra… who is that?”
Another message appeared.
“Do not go home.”
I stared at the words.
Then a third message came through.
“You are not safe in that store either.”
I looked up.
The clerk was no longer behind the register.
The front door was locked.
May you like
And through the glass, the tall figure from our backyard stood beneath the parking-lot light.
Watching us.
