Chapter 1 The Door That Was Never Left Open

Corinne's POV

My phone buzzed for the fourth time before I even hit our street, and I already knew who it was without looking. Dad. Which didn't make sense, because Dad never called four times. Dad texted "home safe?" once, right when my shift ended, and then he waited. He always waited. That was the deal we made after Mom left: I don't make him worry, and he doesn't make me feel like a kid who needs checking on.

Four missed calls broke the deal.

I picked up my pace, balancing my tip jar money in one fist so the coins wouldn't rattle, my apron still tied around my waist because I hadn't bothered to take it off in the diner bathroom like I usually did. Thirteen dollars and change for six hours on my feet. I did the math without meaning to. I always did the math without meaning to.

The porch light was off.

That stopped me for a second, right at the edge of our yard, one foot on the grass and one still on the sidewalk. Dad left that light on every single night. He'd started doing it the year Mom left, like it was a promise to nobody in particular, somebody in this house is still trying. He forgot a lot of things. He never forgot that.

I told myself the bulb burned out. Bulbs do that. It's not a big deal, Corinne; it's a forty-cent bulb, walk up the steps.

So I did.

And the front door was open. Not open like someone forgot to shut it all the way, open like someone had needed to leave in a hurry and hadn't cared who saw. Six inches of black hallway showing through the gap, and I stood there staring at it the way you stare at a math problem you already know you got wrong.

"Dad?"

Nothing.

I should tell you I'm not the kind of person who walks toward the scary noise. I'm the kind of person who double-checks locks, who texts Nora "where are you" if she's ten minutes late from the bus, who has never once watched a scary movie all the way through without covering my eyes. But my little sister was supposed to be at Dad's tonight, not mine, and if something was wrong in this house, she might already be inside it.

That's the only reason my feet moved.

"Dad, it's me. Nora, are you guys home?"

My voice came out steadier than I felt, which is a skill you learn fast when you're the one who tells your kid sister everything's fine even when you don't know if it is. I pushed the door the rest of the way open with two fingers, like touching it lightly would make whatever was wrong less true.

The hallway light was off too. Both of them. On a night when Dad hadn't answered four calls.

I stepped inside anyway, because some fears are loud and some fears are quiet, and the quiet ones are the ones that make you keep walking instead of running. The house smelled normal: coffee, the candle Nora liked, the faint burnt-toast smell that never fully left our kitchen no matter how many times Dad scrubbed it. Normal smells. Wrong silence. Those two things sitting on top of each other made my stomach drop in a way I didn't have a word for yet.

"Dad?" I called again, softer this time, because some part of me had already started to understand that yelling into an empty-feeling house makes you feel small in a way that's hard to come back from.

I heard something.

Not footsteps. Not a voice. A small sound, like fabric shifting, coming from somewhere past the kitchen doorway, and every hair on my arms stood up at once. I told myself it was Dad, hurt his ankle in the dark, needed help, that's all; people don't answer their phones for boring reasons all the time. I told myself a lot of things in about two seconds.

I took one more step toward the kitchen.

And a hand closed around my shoulder from behind.

I didn't scream; my body just froze completely, every muscle locking up at once like someone had hit pause on me mid-breath. The grip was firm. Not gentle. Not careful. A stranger's hand, in my house, in the dark, where my father should have been standing instead.

"Don't move," a voice said, close to my ear, low and rough and not one I recognized. "Don't say anything."

I opened my mouth anyway, some sound trying to claw its way out, and the hand tightened.

"Listen to me." The voice was shaking a little, which somehow scared me more than if it had sounded calm. "He might still be in the house."

He.

Not "someone." Not "an intruder." He, like this person already knew exactly who had done whatever had been done here, like I was supposed to know it too, like the answer was standing right behind that unanswered kitchen doorway waiting for me to walk into it the way I almost had.

The coins from my tip jar slipped out of my fist and hit the floor, rolling in every direction across the hallway tile, and in the sudden ringing quiet after that sound, I heard something else.

A door, somewhere at the back of the house, the door to Dad's office, the one with the new lock he'd put on two weeks ago and never explained, creaking open on its own.

The hand on my shoulder pulled me backward, hard, toward the front door and the dead porch light and the ordinary street where none of this was supposed to be happening. I twisted just enough to see a sliver of a face in the dark, someone I had never seen before in my life, eyes wide with a fear that didn't belong to a stranger, that belonged to someone who already knew something about tonight that I didn't.

"Who are you?" I managed to whisper. "Where's my dad?"

The office door creaked wider.

And from somewhere inside that black rectangle of a room, a voice I did know, one I would have recognized anywhere, one that had said my name every single night of my life, called out, thin and broken and full of a terror I had never once heard from him before.

"Corinne. Run."