Instead, she turned on her heel and bolted toward the door.

Her heavy fur coat billowed behind her as she threw the deadbolt.

“Richard!” I cried out, reaching for him.

He was already moving, but Margaret was surprisingly fast, fueled by raw panic.

She flung the door open and ran out into the gray afternoon.

The cold wind rushed into the house, carrying the scent of damp earth and incoming rain.

Through the open doorway, I saw her black sedan idling in the circular driveway.

The driver, a tall man in a dark suit, stood near the hood, his eyes wide.

“Drive!” Margaret screamed, her voice cracking in the wind. “Get us to the airport! Now!”

She scrambled into the back seat, slamming the door behind her.

The sedan’s tires spun on the wet gravel, throwing tiny stones against the stone facade of the house.

The car tore down the long driveway, disappearing past the wrought-iron gates.

Richard pulled out his phone again, his fingers flying across the screen.

“Nora,” he said when she answered on the first ring. “Margaret is running. She’s heading for the airport.”