My son was seven. Quiet. The kind of kid who watched before he spoke.
“Dad,” he whispered, eyes flicking toward the staircase, “we have to leave. Right now.”
I almost smiled. Almost.
“Why?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
Noah didn’t smile back. He lifted one small hand and pointed upward, like the ceiling had teeth.
“We don’t have time,” he said, voice shaking. “We need to leave this house.”
A cold thread ran up my spine. The kind of cold that doesn’t come from weather.
I crouched to his level. “What did you see, buddy?”
Noah swallowed hard. “I heard Mom talking upstairs before she left.”
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