Emma and Grace were curled together on the bed like the hug itself was armor. Dark circles under their eyes. Pale faces. Grace clutched an old stuffed rabbit to her chest. Emma looked at Ethan the way people look at someone who arrives after the fire.
He dropped to his knees and pulled them close.
“I’m here, my girls. I’m—”
Emma broke down into a deep, shaking cry—the kind that comes from days of swallowed fear. Grace trembled silently, as if she was still afraid the air might hear.
Natalie leaned against the doorframe.
“You’re being dramatic,” she said. “They’re kids. They exaggerate.”
Ethan lifted his head slowly.
“Who called me?” he asked, softly—and sharply.
Emma swallowed. “I did, Daddy… because she opens your things… says numbers… and told us if we talked, she’d separate us.”
Natalie laughed once, short and sharp. “Unbelievable. Now they’re making up stories.”
Something cracked inside Ethan—rage and guilt colliding. Laura had once told him, If you ever doubt, look at their eyes. Kids don’t know how to fake fear.
And this was real fear.
He didn’t argue that night. Not because he believed Natalie—but because he understood something dangerous:
She felt entitled.