I leaned back in my chair and smiled.
Lucy had always had an active imagination.
The previous week she had insisted we evacuate the house because she heard “something breathing” in the attic. That had turned out to be a raccoon that had somehow gotten past the roof vent.
“Why?” I asked, chuckling.
Lucy didn’t laugh.
She pointed upstairs.
Her hand was trembling.
“We don’t have time,” she whispered. “We have to go now.”
Something in her voice made my stomach tighten.
This wasn’t imagination.
Continue on the next page:
