We pull into the driveway. I’m already opening the truck door before we even come to a stop.
“Bec, be careful,” Sam warns.
I jump out, bound up the porch steps, two at a time. Retrieving the house key from my pocket, I pull open the screen door, unlock the heavy wood door, throw that open, bolt into the house.
“Robyn!” I shout. “Kids! You here?!”
I sprint the length of the corridor and enter the kitchen. A woman distraught with worry. Rather, a woman who knows in her aching gut that something is not right. That regardless of what the bus garage attests about the children being delivered safely to the edge of their driveway into the arms of a woman who at least matches Robyn’s description, something is most definitely not right and, in fact, completely wrong.
I hear the front screen
