My sister called me at 12:08 a.m., her voice tight with urgency.
“Turn off every light. Go to the attic. Don’t tell your husband.”
I almost thought she was losing it—but Mara worked for the FBI. She didn’t make calls like this without reason.
I obeyed.
Carefully, I slipped out of bed beside my husband, Caleb Morrison, turned off the lights, and crept upstairs. The attic felt suffocating as I locked myself inside. Then the call dropped.
Seconds later, I heard voices below.
Caleb’s—calm, controlled.
And another man’s.
“Lights are off,” Caleb said.
“Then she knows,” the stranger replied.
My blood ran cold.
Peering through the floorboards, I saw them. The stranger handed Caleb a case. Inside were three passports—with our photos, but different names.
My husband wasn’t who I thought he was.
A message lit up my phone from Mara: Police are two minutes out. Stay hidden. Noah is safe.
Relief and terror collided inside me.
Downstairs, Caleb’s phone rang. His expression shifted. “What do you mean they took him?”
Sirens erupted outside. FBI agents stormed the house.
Caleb looked toward the attic and smiled.
“Your sister should have stayed out of this.”
Then the door crashed open.
