Before she could continue, a sharp, guttural scream erupted from her end—pure pain—followed by a harsh metallic thud, like the phone striking something hard, then a wall.
Click.
The call ended.
The coffee cup slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor, but I didn’t even notice. The quiet, retired man my neighbors saw mowing his lawn disappeared. In his place, something older, something far more dangerous, rose to the surface.
Twenty minutes later, my old pickup truck screeched to a stop in front of the towering wrought-iron gates of the Vance estate.
Richard Vance, Lily’s husband of five years, was a real estate tycoon who had inherited both his wealth and an ego large enough to fill the world. His estate reflected that arrogance—a sprawling mansion worth millions, surrounded by perfectly trimmed lawns and high stone walls.
As I entered the security code Lily had once given me for emergencies, the gates slowly opened, revealing a disturbingly normal scene.
On the immaculate front lawn, about a dozen children—likely the kids of Richard’s wealthy associates—ran around laughing, hunting for colorful plastic Easter eggs. Soft classical music floated through outdoor speakers.
I slammed the truck into park near the entrance, my heart pounding uncontrollably.
I rushed up the wide marble steps. The heavy oak double doors were slightly open.
