The click of the deadbolt echoed like a gunshot in the silent bedroom.

“Josephine! What are you doing?” Caroline’s voice came through the wood, high and shrill with panic. “Let us out!”

“Stay in there and think about what you’ve done,” I said to the door, my voice devoid of emotion. “I have some calls to make.”

I walked over to the nightstand. My hands were shaking now, not from fear, but from an adrenaline overdose. I picked up my phone. I didn’t call the police. I didn’t call my mother.

I scrolled to a number I had dialed for neighborhood potlucks and borrow-a-cup-of-sugar requests.

Lincoln Collins. Caroline’s husband.

He answered on the second ring, the background noise of machinery humming behind him. “Hey, Josephine. Everything okay?”

“Hello, Lincoln,” I said, leaning against the wall for support. “I need you to come to my house. Immediately.”

“Is everyone okay? Is it Caroline?”