Nothing.
The kitchen lights were off.
I kicked off my shoes and rounded the corner into the living room, already halfway toward calling Jyll’s cell.
But someone was there, in the living room already — it was Mikayla, the babysitter. She stood awkwardly by the armchair, phone in hand, her expression somewhere between concerned and apologetic.
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She looked up as I entered.
“Zach, I was about to call you,” she said.
But someone was there, in the living room already.
“Why?” I asked, taking two steps forward. “Where’s Jyll?”
She nodded toward the couch. Emma and Lily, our six-year-old twins, were curled up beside each other. Their shoes were still on, their backpacks were strewn onto the floor beside them.
“Jyll called me around four,” Mikayla said. “She asked if I could come by because she said she needed to take care of something. I thought it was just errands or something…”
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