Marcus was already typing furiously on his phone, his face pale.

The sirens grew louder, their red and blue lights flashing against the wet windows of the living room.

The sound of car tires crunching on the gravel driveway echoed through the house.

A car door slammed outside.

Then another.

Heavy footsteps hurried up the wooden porch steps.

The front door, which was still slightly ajar, was pushed open.

A deputy sheriff in a yellow raincoat stood in the doorway, water dripping from his wide-brimmed hat.

He looked at the crowd gathered in the hallway.

“Is Clara Vance here?” the deputy asked.

I took a step forward, my chest tightening. “I am.”

The deputy pulled a folded packet of papers from inside his wet coat.

“I have an emergency court order here,” the deputy said.

He looked at Vivian, then back at me.

But before he could speak, my phone vibrated violently in my coat pocket.

I pulled it out.

The caller ID showed an unknown number, but the text message that popped up on the screen beneath it made my blood run cold.