I hung up and dialed the emergency line for the commercial locksmith I used for my warehouses, offered him triple his rate to be at my address in fifteen minutes. He agreed.

Then I sat, eyes glued to the screen, watching the seconds crawl. Every sob that shook Brooke felt like a blow to my chest.

I watched her trembling fingers pick pills out of the wet glass while my mother looked on like a queen watching a peasant grovel.

Ten minutes. Twelve. Then, on the audio, the sharp chime of the front doorbell.

Lorraine’s head snapped up. The sneer vanished, instantly replaced by pleasant surprise.

She smoothed her cardigan and walked out of the nursery — taking my crying son with her.