She slowly began to back toward the kitchen hallway, her boots making no sound on the wet floor.

“Patricia,” I said, my voice cracking.

She stopped, her back against the doorframe.

“Did you know about this?” I asked.

She did not answer, but her eyes darted to the front door, where the flashing police lights were still casting red shadows across the walls.

My phone in my coat pocket began to vibrate against my hip.

I pulled it out.

The screen lit up with an unknown number.

I pressed the button to answer and held it to my ear, my eyes still fixed on Patricia.

“Claire,” a voice said.

It was not Mark, and it was not Juliette.

It was a voice I had not heard in five years.

“Thomas,” I whispered.

“I am in the driveway, Claire,” Thomas Bell said. “Do not sign anything, and do not let Patricia leave that room.”

I lowered the phone from my ear.

The screen went black, but I could still hear the faint crackle of static in the receiver.

Patricia had already reached the kitchen doorframe, her fingers gripping the painted wood.