My husband had barely left on his so-called business trip when my six-year-old daughter suddenly whispered, “Mommy… we have to run. Now.”

I shoved Mia into the closet.

“Don’t come out unless I call your name,” I whispered.

“Is Dad trying to hurt us?” she asked.

I couldn’t answer that.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” I said instead.

Then I grabbed a heavy brass lamp and stood between her and the door.

The handle turned.

Slowly.

A man’s voice came through the wood.

“Ma’am, maintenance. Your husband scheduled me.”

Lie.

“I didn’t call anyone,” I said. “Leave now. The police are coming.”

Silence.

Then—

Metal scraping.

Lockpicking.

“He’s breaking in,” I whispered into my phone as the call finally connected.

The lock cracked.

Wood splintered.

Then the man spoke again.

This time, cold.

“Open the door, Claire.”

My blood froze.

He knew my name.

Then—

Sirens.

Loud.

Close.