“Nothing left on the table or in the sink.” He started toward the garage, the trash bag rustling, his boots loud on the linoleum.

“Good,” said the small voice on the speaker.

“Park down the street so it looks like you were out running errands.”

“I will.

I just want to make sure they’re—” He stopped.

Because underneath his voice, faint and then not faint at all, rising fast up our quiet residential street, came the sound of sirens.

Chapter 11 — The Sirens

Christopher stopped dead by the hallway entrance.