I didn't move.
I lay flat on the bed, staring at the closet, and I listened to the humming. It was soft. It was slow. It was the lullaby my mother used to hum in the kitchen when I was small, and it was coming from somewhere inside my house, in the middle of the night, and I did not know where.
Biscuit was standing on the bed next to me. Every hair on her back was up. Her ears were flat. She was staring at the closet door the way cats stare at something they can see and you can't.
The closet door was open. The gun safe was open. The gun was gone.
I reached for my phone. It was still in my hand. My hand was shaking so hard I almost dropped it. I turned on the flashlight and pointed it at the closet. The safe was empty. The gun was not on the floor. It was not on the shelf.
I got up. Slowly. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Biscuit jumped off the bed and ran under it.
"Mom?" I said. I don't know why I said it. It just came out.
Nobody answered.
I walked to the bedroom door. It was still locked from the inside. I had locked it myself at 11:30, and I had the key in my pocket. Nobody could have come in through that door without waking me up.
Unless they were already inside.
I unlocked the bedroom door and pushed it open with my foot. The hallway was dark. The hallway light had been on when I went to bed. Now it was off.
I walked down the hallway with the flashlight in one hand and my phone in the other. Bathroom. Empty. Living room. Empty. Front door locked, chain on. Back door locked. Every window locked.
Nobody had come in. Nobody had gone out. The house was sealed up tight, the way I'd left it.
And the gun was gone.
I went back to the bedroom and searched the closet, under the bed, the dresser drawers. The gun was nowhere.
Then I saw the note.
It was inside the gun safe. A small piece of paper, folded in half, sitting where the gun used to sit. I picked it up with two fingers, the way you pick up something you don't want to touch.
It said, in my handwriting: DAY TWO. HE HAS IT NOW.
I sat down on the edge of the bed. My hands were shaking so badly I had to put the phone down.
He has it now. Who was he? The man on the porch in Ethan's jacket? The man humming my mother's lullaby? The man who was going to come back in seven days, at midnight?
Six days left now. Six days to midnight.
I called Ethan. It rang four times and went to voicemail. Of course it did. It was 3:12 in the morning.
"Ethan," I said, keeping my voice low. "It's me. Someone was in my house tonight. The gun is gone. There's a note. Call me back. Please."
I thought about calling the police. I am a dispatcher. I know what they would ask. And what would I say? Someone took my gun and left a note in my handwriting, and the doors were all locked, and also my future self called me last night?
They would come. They would find nothing. They would write it up as a burglary with no sign of forced entry, and ask if I'd been under a lot of stress lately.
I didn't call. Not yet.
At 5:30, the sky started to get light. I hadn't slept. I didn't think I would sleep again for a while. I made coffee and stood in the kitchen, holding the mug with both hands, looking out at the empty street. I held the note up to the light. The letters were mine. The D was mine. The way I cross my T was mine. The little hook on the 2 was mine.
I folded the note and put it in my pocket with the first one. Two notes now. Both in my handwriting. Both counting down. DAY ONE. RUN. DAY TWO. HE HAS IT NOW.
At 6:00, my phone buzzed. Ethan.
*Sorry, just saw this. Are you okay? What happened?*
I called him. He answered on the first ring.
"Rae, what happened? You sound awful."
"There was a pause. "Rae, I'm coming over," he said. "Stay inside."
"Ethan, wait," I said. "The fire on Route 9. Were you really there?"
"Of course," he said. "Ask anyone at the station."
"I will," I said. I got dressed, put both notes in my jacket pocket, and drove to the fire station.
I know the fire station. I know the guys there. I've been to Ethan's station a hundred times, for barbecues and birthdays and once, years ago, to bring him soup when he had the flu. The station is on the edge of town, a big brick building with three bays and a flag out front.
I walked in the front door at 7:40 in the morning. The guy at the desk was Ray Kowalski. Ray has worked at the station for twenty years. Ray knows me.
"Rae," he said. "What are you doing here? Ethan's not on shift."
"I know," I said. "I need to ask you something, Ray. Last night. The fire on Route 9. Was Ethan there?"
Ray looked at me. Ray has the kind of face that tells you everything before he opens his mouth. His face said: this is a bad question.
"Rae," he said, slowly. "There was no fire on Route 9 last night."
I felt my stomach drop. "What do you mean?"
"I mean there was no call," Ray said. "No dispatch. No trucks out. Nothing on Route 9. The last call we had was a car accident on Miller Road at 9:15, and Ethan wasn't on that one either."
"Then where was Ethan last night?" I asked.
Ray looked down at his desk. "I don't know, Rae. He wasn't here. His shift ended at seven. He went home. That's all I know."
I thanked Ray. I walked back to my car and sat in the driver's seat with the engine off and my hands on the wheel.
Ethan had lied to me. My brother had lied to me about where he was last night. He had told me he was at a fire on Route 9, and there was no fire on Route 9.
Why would Ethan lie? Ethan doesn't lie to me. Ethan has never lied to me, not once, not in our whole lives.
Unless it wasn't Ethan.
The woman on the phone had said it. *He looks like someone I know. That's how he gets in.*
What if the man on the porch in Ethan's jacket wasn't Ethan? What if the man who texted me about the fire wasn't Ethan? What if someone was pretending to be my brother?
I drove home, checking the mirror. Nobody was following me.
When I got home, Ethan's truck was in my driveway.
I stopped at the end of the driveway and sat there with the engine running. Ethan's truck. Right there. Just like he said it would be, yesterday, when he said he was coming over and then didn't come.
I called him. He answered on the second ring.
"I'm in the driveway," he said. "I can see you. Come inside, Rae. It's cold out here. Open the door."
I looked at the house. The front door was closed. The porch light was off. The blue pot was by the front door.
"How did you get here so fast?" I asked. "I just called you ten minutes ago."
"I was already on my way," he said. "I was coming to check on you. Come on, Rae. Open the door."
I looked at the truck. It was Ethan's truck. Same color. Same dent on the passenger side from the time he backed into a mailbox. Same bumper sticker. But I couldn't see his face. The windows were tinted.
"Ethan," I said. "Roll down the window. Let me see your face."
There was a pause.
"Rae, it's freezing out here," he said. "Just open the door."
"Roll down the window," I said again.
The window didn't roll down.
I put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway, keeping my eyes on the truck. The truck didn't move. The shape in the driver's seat didn't move.
I drove to the end of the street and parked where I could see my house. I watched the truck for twenty minutes. It didn't move. Nobody got out.
At 8:45, my phone buzzed. A text from Ethan.
*I'm at home. Where are you? I came by your house and you weren't there. Are you okay?*
I stared at the screen. Ethan was at home. Ethan had come by my house and I wasn't there.
But I was there. I was sitting at the end of the street, looking at my house, and Ethan's truck was in my driveway, and someone was sitting in it.
I texted back: *Whose truck is in my driveway?*
The dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
*What truck? Rae, I'm at home. I haven't left the house. I was asleep until you called.*
I looked at the driveway. The truck was still there. The shape was still in the driver's seat.
I called the dispatch center. Dana answered.
"Dana, it's Rae," I said. "I need you to do something for me. I need you to check something. Is there a unit on 14 Birch Lane right now? A fire truck? A pickup?"
There was a pause, and the sound of a keyboard.
"No," Dana said. "There's nothing on Birch Lane. No units. No calls. Rae, what's going on?"
"Nothing," I said. "Thank you, Dana."
I hung up and I looked at my driveway again. The truck was gone.
Just like that. One minute it was there, and the next minute it wasn't. I hadn't seen it drive away. I hadn't heard an engine. I had looked down at my phone for ten seconds, and when I looked up, the driveway was empty.
I drove home. I parked in the driveway and went inside and locked the door behind me, and I checked every room. Biscuit came out from under the bed and rubbed against my leg. I picked her up and held her, and she purred, and for one second I felt normal.
Then my phone buzzed. It was 2:47 in the afternoon.
A text from a blocked number. No name. No picture. Just words.
*Six days left. He has the gun now. Don't open the door.*
I read it three times. Six days left. He has the gun now. Don't open the door.
The same words, almost. The same warning. But this time it wasn't my voice on the phone. This time it was a text. And this time it came at 2:47 in the afternoon, not 2:47 in the morning.
2:47. The same time. Morning and afternoon. The same numbers, over and over.
I put the phone down. I went to the kitchen and reached for my favorite mug, the blue one with the chip on the handle.
And there it was.
The gun.
Sitting in the cabinet, behind the mugs, where I would find it the next time I reached for a cup.
Someone had put my gun back. Or someone had put it there for me to find. It was loaded. I checked. It was loaded, the way I always kept it, the way my father had taught me.
I picked it up. It was cold. It was heavier than I remembered.
And then I heard it.
The humming.
Soft. Slow. Far away. Inside the house.
My mother's lullaby, coming from the living room, where nobody was supposed to be.
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