That night, around 8 p.m., I got a call.
Not from Evan. Not from Sophie.
But from the neighbor.
“Margaret… they’re home. And… well… I think something is happening.”
I didn’t need details, but she gave them anyway.
“When they opened the door, Sophie screamed.”
Later, I learned exactly what they walked into.
The kitchen was spotless. The stove cold. The balloons, soup ingredients, and birthday sweater were gone from the counter.
