The handle rattled once.
Then twice.
I pressed Chloe against my chest, her small heart racing so fast I could feel it through her pajamas. She didn’t cry. She didn’t move. She was listening—tracking—the way children do when fear sharpens instinct instead of panic.The man chuckled softly. “Come on now,” he murmured. “Daddy doesn’t like games.”
That’s when Chloe did something I will never forget.
She leaned up to my ear and whispered, barely moving her lips:
“Mommy… Daddy always knocks four times. He says it’s so I know it’s really him.”
Four knocks.Not three.
I swallowed hard.
The man twisted the handle again, harder this time. “Open up,” he said, the sweetness gone now. “I don’t want to break anything.”
That was enough.I slowly slid my phone from my pocket and answered Mark’s FaceTime—but I didn’t speak. I turned the camera outward, just enough for him to see the closet darkness… and the gloved hand gripping the handle.Mark’s face went white.
“Stay hidden,” he mouthed silently. Then he looked away from the screen and shouted something I couldn’t hear.
Seconds later, my phone vibrated with a textCALLING 911 NOW. LOCK DOWN.
The man seemed to sense the shift. He stepped back from the door, suddenly alert, scanning the room. He yanked the gloves off and shoved them into his pocket.
“Not worth it,” he muttered to himself.
He moved fast—too fast. Grabbed his backpack. Went straight back to the door.
