I moved as if my body knew what to do before my mind did. I grabbed my purse, put my phone charger inside, took Lily’s backpack and my car keys. I didn’t take coats. I didn’t take toys. I took what mattered: IDs, cash, and the emergency folder I kept because my mother had taught me to always have your documents in one place.
Lily stood by the door, jumping nervously, whispering, “Hurry up.”
I reached for the doorknob.
And that’s when it happened.
The bolt—one that never closed during the day—clicked by itself.
Not a soft click.
A sharp and definitive blow, like a decision made by us.
I stared at him, holding my breath.
Then, the keypad on the alarm panel next to the door lit up.
A soft beep sounded —one, two, three— in the exact pattern it makes when someone activates the system remotely.
