The silence was terrifying.
Not daring to speak, she slid through the doorway, the big white dog at her side. His hackles lifted, black lips pulled back from his teeth.
She crept down the hall and pushed open Milo’s door. A small oblong lump beneath a mess of blankets. The black curls on the white pillow, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
She checked the window. Locked.
The uneasy feeling grew inside her. The wrongness.
Ghost trotted toward Charlotte’s room. With increasing trepidation, Hannah followed. She sensed her way by memory rather than sight.
Darkness lay over everything, thick as a shroud.
The night was completely still. No refrigerator sounds, no ticking clock.
Her slippered feet padded down the hallway. Ghost’s nails click, click, clicked.
Gun up, she pushed open Charlotte’s door with her shoulder and slipped inside. She took in the dim shapes. Her brain registered each familiar item as something strange and alien.
The crib against the far wall. Closed window covered by curtains. Open closet door. The overstuffed reading chair piled with Charlotte’s favorite stuffed animals.
Ghost trotted to the crib and let out an anxious whine. A sound so loud in the silence that she flinched.
A moment later, she was at the crib.
White sheets. Zoo animal mobile hanging still and silent. Liam’s crooked little hat stuffed into one corner.
It was empty.
Adrenaline turned her veins to ice. Terror clawed at her throat, choked off her breath.
Wildly, she scanned the crib, blinking as if that would bring back the proper image: Charlotte curled into a tiny ball, a halo of fuzzy dark hair, fat little thumb jammed into her rosebud mouth.
Still empty.
She took a single staggering step backward. No, no, no…
And then it hit her.
The memory flooded her mind—earlier that evening, after she’d nursed Charlotte, Evelyn had offered to take the baby for the night to allow Hannah some restful sleep.
In her weary, sleep-deprived state, she’d completely forgotten.
Relieved, she sagged against the crib to catch her breath. Her pulse roared in her ears. For a moment, she’d feared the worst…
Ghost whined again.
Her gaze lowered to her dog. His hackles still raised.
The rapid beat of her heart did not slow. The sour-sick feeling of dread did not dissipate.
It grew stronger.
Ghost turned in a restless circle, snout high, sniffing the air. The Great Pyr stepped in front of her, pushing her with his powerful hindquarters.
She squatted and rested her hand on his side. The deep, unsettling rumble vibrated in the dog’s chest.
The silence pressed in on her. Heavy with foreboding.
Ghost’s head snapped up, ears pricked. His body went stiff, his plumed tail sticking straight back, as if he were preparing to launch at some unseen attacker.
The hairs on the back of Hannah’s neck stood on end.
She felt torn, the precious seconds passing too swiftly, sifting between her fingers. She needed to get to Charlotte. And she needed to radio for help.
Swiftly, she moved back into her bedroom and grabbed the radio on her night table, the solar battery charger beside it. Alarm swelled within her with each step.
“I need Liam,” she said. Her whisper loud as a shout in the eerie quiet. “At the Brooks’ house. Something’s wrong.”
“Copy that,” Reynoso said. “Aid on route. You should wait—”
She couldn’t wait. Every second mattered.
Her chest seized. Instinct screamed at her to MOVE. She set the radio back on the nightstand and turned to Ghost.
Shaken, she placed her bad hand on his spine. She dug her fingers into his thick fur. You know what to do.
Ghost headed for the door. Hannah followed.
She hated leaving her son behind in the empty house. But her instincts warned her that the threat no longer lay within these walls but out there.
It was her other child in danger. Her baby.
Hannah needed to get to Charlotte.
She needed to find her daughter right now.
29
Hannah
Day One Hundred and Ten
Ghost sprinted to the front door, Hannah right behind him. In the dark, she barely avoided skinning her knee on the coffee table.
She didn’t waste time with her coat, pausing only to push on her unlaced boots.
She had Ghost; she had her .45.
She fumbled at the lock with her misshapen hand. Her crooked fingers were clumsier in her fear, but she didn’t dare put down the pistol.
The door opened. Ghost shouldered through. He darted into the night, a hurtling white streak in absolute darkness.
There were no stars. No moon. The clouds thick, black, and heavy.