The name on the caller ID was *Thomas*.

Caroline stared at the screen.

The blue light pulsed against her pale cheek.

“Do not answer it,” Rebecca whispered, her hands gripping the edge of our pine kitchen table.

“He knows,” Caroline said.

Her voice was flat, devoid of fear, and entirely analytical.

She reached out with her right hand and tapped the green icon, then pressed the speaker button.

“Caroline?” Thomas’s voice came through, tight and hurried.

“Yes, Thomas,” she said.

“I know Rebecca is there,” he said, a car engine idling loudly in the background of the call.

“I saw her car in the driveway.”

I looked toward the front window.

The headlights of his silver sedan swept across our gravel driveway, cutting through the damp Fredericksburg evening.

“I am coming inside,” Thomas said, and the line went dead.

Rebecca stood up so fast her wooden chair scraped loudly against the linoleum.

“He cannot come in here,” she said, her voice trembling.

“This is my home, Rebecca,” I said, putting my hand on her cold wrist.

“He can enter if Caroline wishes to speak to him.”