He nodded once, his eyes already turning back to the sleeping children.

I left the nursery and went down the back stairs to the kitchen.

The kitchen was stainless steel and dark granite, cold and sterile in the middle of the night.

I grabbed a fresh microfiber cloth and a bottle of lavender-scented disinfectant from the supply closet.

I began to scrub the countertops with firm, circular motions.

I wiped down the espresso machine, the refrigerator doors, and the marble island.

I organized the baby bottles in the drying rack, lining them up by size and color.

I checked the pantry, ensuring the formula cans were neatly stacked with the labels facing forward.

My hands worked quickly, driven by a quiet adrenaline.

The grandfather clock in the main hall chimed two in the morning.

The rain seemed to be letting up, turning into a steady, gray drizzle against the window.

Suddenly, a pair of headlights swept across the kitchen window.

The bright beams cut through the darkness, reflecting off the wet pavement of the driveway.

My heart leaped into my throat.