Just: “Fitzpatrick.”
It was 3:00 a.m., and the ring of my phone sounded like a fire alarm in the dark.
I blinked at the screen, my throat already tight. “Dad?”
His breath came in short, controlled bursts. “Are you at the house?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m in bed. What’s going on?”
“Listen. Lock every exterior door. Kill every light. Take Jay to the guest room in back.”
My pulse slammed against my ribs. “You’re scaring me—”
“Do it,” he snapped. “And don’t let your wife know. Not a word.”
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