"Don't worry," she said.

"I'll be back quickly."

The children were coloring.

Frankie was sleeping in his bed near the back door.

Isabella was making sandwiches.

Everything felt safe.

Normal.

Predictable.

I grabbed my purse.

I checked on Frankie one last time.

He didn't even open his eyes.

I smiled.

"See you soon."

Then I left.

I locked the door behind me.

Twenty-Five Minutes Later

The pharmacy was busy.

I remember standing in line.

I remember looking at my phone.

I remember thinking about dinner.

I remember wondering whether the children would want pasta or pizza.

Nothing felt wrong.

Then I drove home.

Twenty-five minutes.

Maybe a little more.

Not long enough for anything significant to happen.

At least, that's what I believed.

I parked.

Walked toward the house.

Opened the door.

And immediately knew something was wrong.

The house was too quiet.

Not empty.

Not peaceful.

Wrong.

There is a difference.

The Mug on the Table

Diane was sitting at my kitchen table.

She was drinking coffee from my favorite mug.

A large suitcase stood beside the stairs.

For several seconds, I couldn't speak.

"Where's Isabella?"

Diane smiled.

"Oh, I sent her home."

My stomach tightened.

"What?"

"She said she had somewhere to be."

I looked toward the children.

They were sitting on the rug coloring.

Jillian looked up.

"Mommy!"

She held up a piece of paper.

"Look!"

She had drawn a rainbow horse.

I forced myself to smile.

"That's beautiful, sweetheart."

Then I looked around again.

Something was missing.

Something important.

Something impossible not to notice.

Frankie.

His bed was empty.

His water bowl was untouched.

There were no footsteps.

No breathing.

No tail thumping.

I called his name.

"Frankie?"

Nothing.

I called again.

"Frankie?"

Silence.

My heart began pounding.

I checked the living room.

Nothing.