The call came just after two in the morning, slicing through the quiet like a blade. My phone vibrated on the nightstand, harsh and insistent, and before I even looked at the screen, my body knew something was wrong. Ethan was away on a business trip, and he never called at that hour. When I answered, his voice didn’t sound like my husband’s voice at all. It was tight, ragged, stripped of warmth and familiarity. He didn’t say my name.

He didn’t ask how I was. He said only one thing, and he said it like a command ripped straight from panic: “Lock every door and window in the house. Do it now.” I sat up so fast the room spun, my heart hammering against my ribs. I asked what was happening, but he cut me off, urgency sharp enough to sting. He told me not to ask questions, not to waste time, not to hesitate. I grabbed our three-year-old daughter Mila from her bed, her warm weight heavy and trusting in my arms, and moved through the house as if it were suddenly hostile territory. Every click of a lock echoed too loudly. Every shadow felt wrong.