“I think you should get here.”
I’m out the door before the line even goes dead.
82
Saint
When I arrive, the EMTs are already loading Mildred into the ambulance.
The flashing lights paint the quiet street in pulses of red and white.
“She slipped,” one of the EMTs says. “Hit her head, we think.”
But something about the scene is wrong.
Very wrong.
I step past them and into the house.
The kitchen floor is flooded.
Not damp.
Flooded.
An inch of water spreads across the tile like someone turned a faucet on and walked away.
I crouch and run my hand through it.
Cold.
Too clean.
Too deliberate.
I look around the room.
No broken pipes.
No leaking sink.
Every other room in the house is perfectly dry.
Then I notice something else.
The back door.
Open.
My jaw tightens.
Ten minutes later Nora rushes through the front door.
She takes one look at the water and the ambulance lights outside and nearly collapses.
I catch her before she hits the floor.
“She’s alive,” I say quickly. “Nora—she’s alive.”
