intermittently across the windows like strobe lights.
I reached Emma’s bedroom door and pushed it wide open. The wood slammed against the wall with a sharp, echoing crack that rattled the picture frames in the hallway.
Evan didn’t flinch.
He didn’t scramble off the bed or throw his hands up in panic. With agonizing slowness, he lifted his head from Emma’s shoulder and turned to look at me standing in the doorway.
The infrared light from the camera high in the corner illuminated the scene like a theatrical stage.
“Carrie,” he said, his voice completely level, devoid of any guilt, apology, or fear. “You shouldn’t be awake. You’ll wake her up.”
“Get away from my daughter,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. It was lower, colder, and deadlier than anything I had ever uttered in my entire life.
