Helen stood motionless, the key hovering just inches from the ignition.
“Lucas, honey… what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
The boy took her hand, squeezing it so tightly it almost hurt.
“Trust me. We have to walk. Right now,” he whispered, glancing back at the house as if afraid someone might hear them.
Helen dropped the key into her coat pocket. Her heart began to pound, a strange rhythm, a mix of fear and confusion. Lucas had never raised his voice, never shown this kind of fear. Something serious was happening—and she could feel it, like a trembling in her ribs.
They had barely walked halfway down the driveway when her phone began to vibrate incessantly. First her eldest daughter, Anna. Then her youngest son, David. Call after call, a frantic succession.
