“Wait,” Ilse said, quickly. “I want delivery.”

The voice on the other end spoke apologetically. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I was clear. Delivery is done for the night. Only pickup. Would you like me to cancel the order?”

Ilse began to nod and reply, but then she paused, glancing at Samantha. She pictured the woman’s smile. Pictured the eager look on her face at the thought of something so simple as dough and cheese and sauce. Samantha could wait back at the house—safe and sound behind locked doors. It couldn’t hurt, could it? Maybe it was just her sleep-deprived state making rough decisions.

Ilse sighed. “Where are you guys again?”

“Just on the corner of Creswell and Priva.”

Ilse paused for a moment, closing her eyes and picturing the drive. It was only five minutes away. Not so far… Was it?

She glanced again at Samantha, feeling the weight of the day heavy against her shoulders. Feeling the threats and whispers of fear taunting and niggling in her mind.

Ilse felt her fist bunch up again. Five minutes away to get Samantha her pizza. Five minutes was nothing. Ilse could be brave for five minutes. So could Samantha. They would reward themselves with pepperoni and double cheese.

“No, that’s fine,” Ilse said, quickly. “I’ll be there.”

Samantha watched quizzically as Ilse lowered her phone, shaking her head apologetically. “Delivery is done for the night,” she explained. Samantha’s face fell. “But they’re only five minutes away. I figured I’d go pick it up. Would you like to come with?”

Sam’s expression brightened again. She paused, glancing nervously around the house. “I’ll show you how to lock up,” Ilse said, instinctively. “It’ll be fine. If you’d rather I call and cancel, though, I totally understand.”

But Samantha was shaking her head, breathing slowly, but nodding to herself in a sort of quiet determination. “Five minutes is nothing,” she said.

“Nothing,” Ilse replied. “Exactly.”

She glanced at her dumb phone, checking the clock. Five minutes. Twenty-five for it to be ready. She checked when she’d placed the call. Eleven exactly. Eleven-twenty, then. That’s when she’d leave. Not a second before, or after. One had to be precise with things so fickle as time.

She nodded, watching the digital clock on her old flip phone.

Eleven twenty. Exactly. Precisely.

Ilse could still feel the way her feet had glued to the stairs at the top of the basement. Could feel the crippling, freezing fear paralyzing her. She set her jaw, eyes narrowed. Never again. She refused. Not this time… Not again.

You’re not thinking clearly, said a small voice in her mind. A voice that sounded surprisingly similar to Dr. Mitchell’s.

But Ilse ignored it. What could a little trip to get some pizza hurt anyway? That’s all she wanted, wasn’t it? Just to pick up a pizza? What else could she possibly want? What else was there?

Samantha would be safe, locked inside, behind doors and shuttered windows. Cops were patrolling the neighborhood. She could take the bedroom, and lock that door as well.