Then after saying goodbye, he disappeared out the door to the garage.
The door clicked shut.
And just like that, I was alone with a three-year-old.
5
NORA
“I’m makinga birthday cake for Bandit,” Charlotte announced proudly as she pressed her tiny thumb into a lump of pink playdough. “He’s turning four.”
It was just after ten in the morning, and we were tucked into a cozy corner of Theo’s kitchen at the kitchen table. Bandit, the stuffed raccoon, was seated upright in the chair beside Charlotte.
“Four?” I lifted my brows. “That’s a very special age.”
“Uh huh.” Charlotte nodded solemnly, then slid the cake into the tiny plastic oven that was next to her. “We’re both going to be four on our birthdays.”
“You’re going to be four, too?” I gasped softly. “That’s so big. Is your birthday soon?”
“Not forforever.” Her shoulders dipped for half a heartbeat. But then she brightened again, eyes sparkling. “But Daddy said I can have a princess party like Aspen if I want!”
“Well, that sounds very fun,” I said, smiling. “You’d make the perfect princess. You already made a beautiful Jasmine on Saturday.”
Charlotte glowed at the compliment, her curls bouncing as she happily punched a new lump of playdough into submission.
I was attempting a playdough rose—one that currently resembled a distressed donut—when a sharp knock rattled the front door.
I froze mid-roll, glancing toward the hallway.
Who knocked this early? If it was a delivery, they’d just leave it, right?
But apparently, Charlotte didn’t avoid unexpected knocks on the door like I did because as soon as she heard it, she squealed and yelled, “Someone’s here!” before sliding off her chair and bolting toward the front door.
“Wait—hang on, sweetheart.” I stood and brushed playdough from my fingers before chasing after her.
By the time I reached the entryway, she was already on her tiptoes, working the deadbolt like a tiny escape artist.
And with skills like that, I instantly understood why her dad had installed the child-safety cover on the handle. Because this curious little girl would probably open the door for anyone.
“Let me get that,” I said, stepping beside her.
When I opened the door, a middle-aged woman stood on the porch, brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail, both arms full of grocery bags.
“Oh—hi,” I said, blinking in surprise. Theo hadn’t said anything about having groceries delivered today. “Thank you.”
But when I reached to take the bags, the woman hesitated, her brow creasing like she wasn’t sure she should be handing them to me. Then, seeming to think again, she offered the reusable grocery bags to me and said, “I’ll just grab the rest.”
“Perfect, thank you,” I said.
But before I could take the groceries into the kitchen to putaway, Charlotte darted out the door after the grocery-delivery lady.
“Charlotte!” I half-laughed, half-yelped as I chased after her, grocery bags in tow. “Hey—no, sweetheart. It’s not safe to run outside with strangers, remember?”
Okay, yes—this womanlookedperfectly normal, but I was pretty sure Theo wouldn’t appreciate me letting his three-year-old sprint off with a random delivery driver.
But Charlotte didn’t slow down. She spun back toward me and shouted, “But that’s Jessie! She brings me snacks!”
Great. The classic lure: snacks. That was a familiar story in every cautionary tale ever.