We were forty miles from the state line.

The rain was turning into sleet, hitting the windshield with a sharp, tapping sound.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

I pulled it out.

The screen showed an incoming call from an unknown number.

I pressed the button and held the phone to my ear.

“Adrian,” a voice said.

It was not my mother.

It was Celeste.

“I know you are on your way to Maine,” she said.

Her voice was calm, almost pleasant.

“You should turn the car around.”

“Why?” I asked, my grip tightening on the phone.

“Because I am already at the cottage with Maren,” she said.

“And we are having a very interesting conversation about your children.”

“Maren is in Maine?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper against the drumming of the sleet.

“She is,” Celeste said.

“And the children?”

“They are upstairs, coloring,” she replied.

“Do not touch them, Celeste,” I said.

“I have no desire to hurt them, Adrian,” she said.

“Then why are you there?”

“Because your mother is losing her mind, and I need to protect my interests,” she said.