The man inside our house wasn’t my husband.
Through the narrow crack in the cupboard door, I saw black boots step into the kitchen—boots Daniel didn’t own. The cupboard handle slowly began to turn.
I covered Emily’s mouth as the door creaked open. A tall stranger stared back at us, clean-shaven, wearing a jacket almost identical to Daniel’s.
“Found you,” he said calmly, smiling.
I screamed.
He lunged forward, but I kicked out instinctively, catching his knee. He stumbled, just long enough for me to yank Emily free and run.
We tore through the kitchen and burst into the backyard, cold air burning my lungs.
“Run to Mrs. Thompson’s!” I shouted.
Emily hesitated. “What about you?”
“Go!” I yelled.
She ran.
The man grabbed my ankle as I tripped, dragging me back toward the house. Panic surged as I screamed for help.
Then headlights flooded the yard.
Daniel’s car screeched to a stop. He jumped out and tackled the man to the ground as neighbors poured outside, phones raised, someone already calling the police.