I thought the babysitter had overreacted until I saw the shattered glass
, the bloody knife, and my terrified daughter pointing toward the stairs. Someone was still in my house.
The babysitter called me so suddenly that I almost dropped my phone.
“Mrs. Carter, please come immediately,” Lily whispered. Her voice was shaking so badly I could barely understand her. “Something terrible has happened.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened? Is Emma hurt?”
There was a pause. A horrible, breathless pause.
“Just come home. Please.”
I didn’t remember grabbing my keys. I didn’t remember locking my office door. I only remembered running through the parking lot with my heart pounding so hard it hurt.
Emma was six. My whole world. I had left her with Lily, our regular babysitter, for barely two hours while I handled an emergency meeting across town. Lily had watched her dozens of times before. She was responsible, sweet, careful.
But on that call, she sounded like someone who had seen a ghost.
I drove home with one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other calling Lily again and again. No answer.
By the time I pulled into the driveway, my hands were numb.
The front door was unlocked.
That was the first thing that made my stomach drop.
“Emma?” I shouted, pushing inside. “Lily?”
No answer.
Then I heard a muffled sob from the living room.
I ran toward it.
Lily was standing near the couch, pale as paper, holding my daughter close against her chest. Emma’s small arms were wrapped around Lily’s neck, but when she saw me, her face crumpled.
Her eyes were red. Her lips trembled.
“Mom,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
I froze.
Sorry?
“What are you sorry for?” I asked, stepping closer.
That was when I saw it.
The glass coffee table was shattered. One of Emma’s stuffed rabbits lay on the floor, soaked in something dark. A kitchen knife was sitting on the rug, its blade smeared red.
My breath left my body.
“Lily,” I said slowly, “what happened?”
Lily’s eyes filled with tears. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
Emma began shaking harder.
“Mommy,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean to make him angry.”
My blood turned cold.
“Him?” I asked.
Before either of them could answer, a sound came from upstairs.
One slow footstep.
Then another.
Lily grabbed my wrist so hard it hurt.
“He’s still here,” she breathed.
And then Emma looked toward the stairs and screamed.
I could barely move. My daughter was pointing at the hallway behind me, Lily was crying without making a sound, and whoever was upstairs had just stopped walking. Then a man’s voice drifted down, low and familiar.
“Sarah… don’t do anything stupid.”
The rest of the story is below
