Chapter 1 - THE CALL THAT ENDED TOO SOON
Peter Calder had spent eight months being told that his sister needed space.
Rachel had become withdrawn after her husband, Nathan, died in a highway accident. She stopped attending family dinners. She stopped answering Peter’s calls. Most importantly, she stopped allowing Peter to see her children.
Six-year-old Drew and three-year-old Lily had once spent nearly every Sunday at Peter’s house.
Then Nathan died.
Everything changed.
Rachel said the children were grieving.
She said Drew had developed behavioral problems.
She said Lily had become terrified of strangers.
Peter offered help.
Rachel rejected it.
Every explanation sounded reasonable enough by itself.
Together, they made him uneasy.
His mother, Margaret, defended Rachel relentlessly.
“She lost her husband, Peter. Stop judging her.”
“I’m not judging her.”
“You keep showing up at her house.”
“Because I haven’t seen the kids in three months.”
“She said they’re fine.”
Peter finally stopped arguing.
Then Drew called him.
It was 11:47 on a Thursday night.
Peter almost missed the call because the number was blocked.
“Hello?”
For several seconds there was only breathing.
Then a tiny voice.
“Uncle Peter?”
Peter sat upright.
“Drew?”
“Don’t tell Mom.”
Peter’s entire body tightened.
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Are you okay?”
A pause.
“No.”
Peter stood.
“What happened?”
Drew’s breathing became faster.
“Lily’s hungry.”
Peter grabbed his keys.
“What do you mean?”
“She keeps crying.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“Upstairs.”
Peter stopped.
“Where are you?”
Drew whispered, “Downstairs.”
Peter had been inside Rachel’s suburban house dozens of times.
The basement door locked from the outside.
He remembered that because Nathan had once complained about it.
Peter was already moving toward his truck.
“Drew, stay on the phone.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Footsteps sounded faintly through the line.
Drew suddenly whispered, “She’s coming.”
The call ended.
Peter drove to Rachel’s house in twelve minutes.
All the lights were off.
Rachel’s SUV was gone.
He pounded on the front door.
No answer.
He called her.
Straight to voicemail.
Then he walked around the side of the house and noticed something strange.
Rachel’s kitchen window was open despite the freezing rain.
A chair had been pushed beneath it from inside.
Someone had apparently tried to climb out.
Peter stepped closer.
On the white windowsill was a tiny handprint.
And beneath it, scratched shakily into the painted wood, were four words.
May you like
UNCLE PETER PLEASE COME BACK.
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