We climbed the staircase in suffocating silence, every creak beneath our feet magnified by dread.

Once inside the master bedroom, I crossed to the window with trembling hands—only to find Bryce’s sedan sitting calmly in the driveway of our quiet cul-de-sac.

He had never actually left for his trip.

Penelope covered her mouth, tears sliding silently down her cheeks, while a distant mechanical hum rose up from below—followed by the unmistakable sound of the garage door opening slowly.

Footsteps came into the house through the mudroom.

They were slow, deliberate, and undeniably unfamiliar.