I just kept my eyes on the road.

But the screen lit up against the dark fabric of my jacket, casting a pale, persistent glow.

I reached down, my fingers brushing the glass.

The notification bubble on the lock screen showed a single new message from the same restricted number.

I swiped the screen open.

The text was only three words long.

“Look behind you.”

I froze.

Slowly, my eyes drifted up to the rearview mirror.

In the shadows of the backseat, right next to Leo’s car seat, a pale hand reached out from the darkness.

I slammed on the brakes.

The truck skidded on the wet gravel, the headlights sweeping across the dark pines before we jolted to a stop.

My hand went straight to the holster under my jacket.

“Don’t shoot,” a voice whispered from the darkness of the cabin.

“Please, Daniel.”

It was Caleb.

His face was pale, smeared with grease and rain, his eyes wide with a frantic terror.

He was shaking, his hands raised in front of his chest.

Next to him, baby Leo let out a soft, sleeping sigh, undisturbed by the sudden stop.