Imogen
I slam the front door behind me, flip on the lights, twist the dead bolt, my soaked boots squealing against the hardwood. The “Front door open” startles me more than usual. But when it quiets, I process how empty the house is—too innocent, too quiet for what I’m about to do.
The alarm panel waits just to the left of the doorframe.
My shaky hands hover over the box as I look for an obvious way to set off the alarm.
I’ve never assessed the panel, barely knew if there would be a switch for calling the police when I decided to come over here—half remembering a red button from when we first arrived last week.
But then, tucked in the bottom corner of the panel, I see a red button: Panic.
I jab it with the heel of my hand, fingers too slippery.
After a split second of silence, the house detonates with sound.
The alarm screams to life, a high-pitched, blaring wail that pierces through the walls. My ears feel like they’re splitting open. I clamp my palms over them, heart pounding as Robot Woman says, “Emergency. Police dispatched.”
It worked. Oh my god, it worked.
I twist the dead bolt again and rip the door open, ready to sprint back down the hill to Amelia and Madison. To tell them we’re saved.
But my body halts mid-step.
There, staggering across the porch, is Parker. Our eyes meet for one frozen heartbeat before instinct seizes me.
I whip around, slam the door behind me, and bolt for the lakefront door that leads down to the dock.