Mia’s heart nearly stopped when the kitchen light flicked on.
She was halfway up the tree, one foot on a thick branch, fingers gripping the rough bark just below her window sill. Her mother’s silhouette moved past the kitchen window, heading straight for the back door. The soft click of the lock turning echoed in the quiet night like a gunshot.
Oh God, no.
Mia froze, barely breathing. If her mother stepped outside to check the yard — maybe for a late-night glass of water or because she heard something — it would all be over. She would see her daughter sneaking back in like a thief.
For three terrifying seconds, Mia hung there, muscles burning, praying the shadows would hide her. Then the back door opened. Her mother stepped onto the porch, looking out into the dark backyard.
“Mia?” he
