She shook her head violently, her whole body rigid with tension. “We don’t have time,” she whispered again, her voice cracking. “We have to leave the house right now. Please, Mommy.”

The dish I’d been holding slipped from my fingers and clattered into the sink. Something in my daughter’s voice—some fundamental wrongness—made my stomach twist with the kind of dread you feel when you’re driving on ice and your car starts to slide.

“Lily, slow down,” I said, drying my hands quickly on a towel and kneeling to her level. “Did you hear something? Did someone try to come in?”

She grabbed my wrist with both hands, her small fingers digging into my skin. “Mommy, please,” she begged, tears finally spilling over. “I heard Daddy on the phone last night. He was in his office. I got up to get water and I heard him through the door. He said he’s already gone, and today is when it happens. He said—” her voice dropped to barely audible, “—he said we won’t be here when it’s done.”

The kitchen seemed to tilt. My pulse hammered in my ears so loudly I almost couldn’t hear my own voice. “Who was he talking to?”