Before Amelia could explain, I heard a muffled shuffle and then another voice. “Hello?” Evelyn said.
“Why isn’t my daughter going trick-or-treating with the others?” I demanded, trying to keep my voice calm.
There was a brief silence. Then her tone shifted. “Oh, the signal’s bad,” she said lightly. “You’re breaking up.”
“Evelyn—” Click. The line went dead.
When I called again, it went straight to voicemail. I tried one more time, but still nothing.
My husband, Michael, was sitting on the couch, watching me pace. “What’s going on?” he asked.
I turned the screen toward him. “Your mother just told our six-year-old she can’t go trick-or-treating… and then hung up on me.”
His face darkened. “She what?”
I didn’t even need to say anything else. He grabbed his keys and headed for the door. “Let’s go.”
The drive to his mother’s mansion felt longer than it was. Neither of us spoke. The only sound was the rhythmic tap of my nails against the door handle and the faint hum of the engine.
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