It was a grainy, night-vision image of my station wagon, taken from a high angle just ten minutes ago at the edge of our driveway.

My hands tightened on the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.

Clara watched me, her eyes wide in the green glow of the dashboard light.

“What is it?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Nothing,” I said, putting the car back in drive. “Just a spam message.”

I merged back onto the dark highway, my heart hammering against my ribs.

They were watching the house.

They had people on our street, waiting in the shadows.

We drove sixty miles north to a small, nondescript motel off Interstate 95.

The rain started as we pulled into the gravel lot, a cold, steady downpour that streaked the windows.

I paid the clerk in cash under a false name, keeping my head down beneath the brim of my rain hat.

The room smelled of stale tobacco, damp carpet, and cheap lavender disinfectant.

I helped Clara onto the queen-sized bed, gently propping her injured leg up on two thin pillows.