They were coming from the grand staircase.

“Nathan,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“They’re coming up.”

Nathan looked up from his children, his expression hardening.

“We need to go into the panic room,” he said.

He stood up and ran to the large wooden wardrobe in the corner.

With a grunt of effort, he shoved the heavy oak cabinet aside.

Behind it was a small steel keypad mounted on the drywall.

He entered a six-digit code, his fingers flying across the keys.

A hidden seam in the wall clicked, and a heavy steel door swung inward.

The small room inside was bright, lined with emergency supplies and communication monitors.

“Get inside, girls,” Nathan said, ushering them toward the opening.

“Emma, take your sisters’ hands.”

The five-year-olds scrambled inside, holding onto each other tightly.

“Are you coming, Daddy?” Sophie asked, her eyes wide with fear.

“In just a minute, sweetheart,” Nathan said.

He looked at me.

“You get in there too.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m staying with you.”

“If they find us both in here, they’ll use thermite on the hinges,” Nathan said.