Mark always had a way of making things sound urgent. Dramatic, even. So when he came home that Tuesday with wide eyes and a voice full of worry, I listened. He said there were rats. In the basement. Behind the kitchen cabinets.

He’d already called a specialist—very official sounding—and they recommended we vacate for two weeks so they could deep clean and disinfect everything. The whole thing felt… odd. But Mark had always been a little paranoid. I once caught him testing smoke alarms at 2 a.m. after watching a fire documentary. So I didn’t argue.

He booked us a hotel downtown—said it had an indoor pool for the kids, complimentary breakfast, and great reviews. Emma and Noah were thrilled. Waffles every morning, swimming every afternoon. It was the kind of “vacation” I could stomach, even if my gut told me something was off.

The first few days passed quickly. Mark popped in occasionally, said he was swamped at work and stopping by the house to supervise the cleanup. But by day ten, I hadn’t seen a single sign of “disinfection.” And Emma had a meltdown because the hotel shampoo made her hair feel weird. So I told her I’d stop by the house to grab her favorite one.

I wasn’t expecting to find the house quiet. Or spotless. Or completely lacking any sort of crew or equipment. I was definitely not expecting the shiny red car in the driveway. I parked across the street, waited, hoping there was some logical explanation. That’s when I saw her.