“She keeps saying not to tell you things,” I said quietly.
He frowned. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Secrets. Rules. She even told her dolls not to tell you today.”
James chuckled, shaking his head. “She’s four, babe. It’s probably about sneaking cookies or not brushing her teeth. You’re overthinking.”
“Maybe,” I admitted. But my stomach still felt tight.
A week later, I was outside watering the hydrangeas when I heard her again — this time talking to Elsie, who lay on a blanket beside her.
Her voice was calm, serious in that eerie way children sometimes get when they’re in their own world.
“Remember,” she said, “if Daddy asks, the monster only comes when he’s not home.”
My heart lurched.
“What monster, Lina?” I asked.
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