But then, through the haze of sleep, I saw the name on the screen.
**Mara.**
My sister. Mara worked for the FBI, in a world of acronyms and hushed conversations that I never quite understood. She lived by a set of unwritten rules, and one of them was an absolute prohibition on late-night calls. She never called this late unless a world had ended. A family member had died, or something catastrophic was seconds away from happening. My heart began a frantic, panicked drumming against my ribs. I pushed myself upright, the sheets pooling around my waist.
I answered the call in a whisper, my throat tight. “Mara?”
Her voice was not the one I knew. It was stripped of all warmth, all sisterly affection. It was a wire pulled taut to its breaking point. “Listen to me very carefully, Elise. Don’t ask questions yet. Just listen. Turn everything off. Your phone’s screen, the lamps, the monitor. Everything that makes light or sound. Go to the attic, lock the door from the inside, and do not, under any circumstances, tell Caleb.”
A chill, profound and deeply primal, snaked its way up my spine. It was a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. “What? Mara, what are you talking about?”
