Medora
Three weeks later
I was ready to leave. My bags were packed, and Dad was doing much better. I hadn’t expected to stay an extra week, but I survived. I stalked toward the front door, my lips curling into a relieved smile.
I pushed the door. It didn’t open.
I frowned, leaning into it. Nothing.
Sighing, I typed in the code. Mom must’ve activated it again. The keypad blinked red. Wrong code.
What?
I tried it again. And again. Each time, the keypad buzzed angrily, mocking me.
What’s going on?
The steady tap-tap of Dad’s walking stick echoed through the hall, cutting through my confusion. I turned sharply, dropping my bag to the floor. My arms crossed instinctively over my chest.
“Mom,” I called out, my voice tight, my patience thinner than ever. “What’s going on?”
She stepped
