Then he spoke again, slower this time.
“Emma needs to leave that house immediately.”
Something twisted in my stomach.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Take her and go. Right now.”
I didn’t argue.
I couldn’t.
I forced a smile, picked up my six-year-old daughter Emma, and walked toward the hallway.
“Just taking Emma to the bathroom,” I told Laura, trying to sound normal.
She nodded distractedly while arranging paper plates.
But instead of turning down the hall, I walked straight to the front door.
“Mom?” Emma whispered, wrapping her arms around my neck. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing, sweetheart,” I said, my hands trembling as I opened the door. “Let’s just take a little walk.”
The moment we stepped outside, I heard them.
Sirens.
Not one.
Dozens.
They were distant at first — then suddenly much closer.
My stomach dropped.
Emma tightened her grip around my neck.
“Mom…”
Then I saw them.
Black pickup trucks without license plates raced into the street from both directions. Police cars followed behind them, red and blue lights flashing so brightly the entire block looked like daylight.
Neighbors stepped outside in their pajamas, confused and pointing.
My phone vibrated again.
Ethan.
“Are you out?” he asked urgently.