We ran, fast and silent, flattening ourselves against the wall, past the open maw of the hall bathroom, then into the expanse of the kitchen. Shouldn’t we set off the alarm system to bring help? Shouldn’t we call the police? Each internal question triggered another burst of adrenaline, but I had committed. Follow Michael. Follow Grace. Our house had never seemed so big, each window a point of exposure, each light fixture a potential camera.

Michael hadn’t hesitated, opening the door single-handedly and sprinting to the car, and my panic drove my feet faster until I was light-headed. Driver’s side. He’d said to go to the driver’s side.

I’d been clenching the keys so tightly that it hurt to loosen my grip, and when I tried to find the car key, my nerveless fingers fumbled and almost dropped them, but I hit the lock.

Michael opened the passenger side and hissed, “Let’s go!”

And I was in the driver’s seat, starting the engine as he slammed the door shut, backing up before he was fully seated, driving away from our house, its windows dark, its front door open, while Michael still clutched Grace against his chest.

As the house retreated behind us, he twisted around, maneuvering her into her car seat.

Gently, I wanted to tell him. Be careful. It wasn’t safe, hanging over the headrest, driving with Grace unsecured, any of this. But nothing was safe anymore.

Grace’s belt clicked, and Michael dropped back into the seat beside me.

As I glanced at him, the car bumped up against the curb, and I wrenched the wheel, bringing us back onto the road. It was all I could do to control the car, to keep us moving straight, away from the danger. We were out of the neighborhood before I could draw a deep breath, still clenching the wheel so hard my hands hurt.

“Where are we going? What happened?” I looked at Michael, his face pale and almost gaunt, as if he’d lost twenty pounds in an evening. Like me, he’d left his seat belt unbuckled, the first time I’d ever seen him without one, and that was almost the scariest thing.

“The police station.” His voice was heavy, and he reached out with one hand to touch my knee, as if for reassurance.

And then he started to cry.

I’d never seen Michael cry, not really. He’d gotten quiet, or choked up, or hunched over—but racking sobs, the kind that stole your breath and made it stutter, never. I kept driving, my heart pounding and the wheel in a death grip.

What could have happened?

“Please, please tell me what’s wrong.”

But his fingers only tightened on my knee as he fought to choke back the tears.