I’ll be free.”

Footsteps.

A door opening—our bedroom closet. The drawer sliding. A metallic clink echoed faintly.

He returned to the living room carrying something that scraped the floor—maybe a duffel bag.

He paused above us, and I felt his gaze press down, a hand tightening around my throat.

“Goodbye,” he murmured.

The front door opened.

Cold air rushed in, then the door clicked shut.

Silence.

My heart hammered so loudly I was sure it would betray us.

I forced my lips to move, barely a whisper, and murmured to Caleb, “Don’t move yet.”

Then I felt it—his fingers twitching against mine.

He was awake.

A faint, desperate squeeze.

Relief crashed over me so hard it nearly made me cry.

“Quiet,” I breathed, shaping the word as carefully as I could.

“Pretend.”

His breathing was shallow, uneven.

Whatever Ethan had slipped into the food hadn’t fully knocked him out—maybe because he ate less, maybe because most of his juice had spilled. Maybe, for once, luck was on our side.

I waited.

The house stayed still. No footsteps. No rattling cabinets. No keys in the lock.

Slowly, I cracked my eyelids just enough to see the microwave’s glow.

8:42 p.m.

My arms felt like sandbags, but they obeyed.

Inch by inch, I pulled my phone from my back pocket with the smallest movements possible. The screen lit my face, making my heart lurch. I dimmed it immediately.

No service.