Outside, the footsteps paused.

A low voice I didn’t recognize said, “You said they were out.”

“They are,” Ethan answered.

“I checked.”

Cold fear clenched my chest.

He hadn’t just returned—he had brought someone to stage the scene, maybe remove evidence, maybe confirm we were dying.

Ethan’s shoes stopped right outside the bathroom.

I imagined him trying the handle and realizing it was locked.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he spoke softly, almost fondly:

“In a minute, we call.

We cry. We say we found them like this.”

The stranger chuckled.

“You sure the kid won’t wake up?”

Ethan’s voice sharpened.

“He ate enough. He’ll be out.”

Caleb’s eyes were full of tears.

I held his gaze—don’t let go, don’t give up.

Then another sound—sharp, authoritative knocks at the front door.

“POLICE!

OPEN UP!”

Everything snapped into motion.

The stranger hissed, Ethan cursed.

Drawers slammed.

Something metallic clattered—maybe a dropped bottle, maybe panic itself.

The dispatcher’s voice cut through my fear.

“They’re there. Stay put.”

The front door opened.

Voices flooded the house—loud, commanding, real.

“Sir, step away from the hallway.”

“Hands where we can see them!”

“Who else is in the house?”

Ethan tried to use his practiced tone, the one he used with waiters and neighbors.

“Officer, I called you—my wife and son collapsed, I—”