She stared up the driveway. There was nothing stirring. No hand or face appeared at the open mudroom door. Then, with a suddenness that made her flinch, an orange-striped cat darted through the open door and bounded over the snow toward the barn.

Meg’s head fell forward onto her steering wheel. The cat. She had forgotten the cat. Linda had visited the shelter the same day she gave her husband his walking papers. She had told Meg his allergies kept her from owning a cat for years, but they weren’t going to hold her back one minute longer.

Her whole arm trembling, Meg reached for the phone on the passenger’s seat. It was almost too heavy for her to lift. She dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one Emergency Services. Please state your name and the nature of your emergency.”

“I’m…” Meg took a breath. “I’m Meg Tracey. There’s been a-someone’s been killed.”

“Where are you, ma’am? Are you safe?”

Was she safe? Oh, God. Meg smashed the door lock button.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?”

“Yes. Yeah. I think so. I think I’m safe. I’m not in the house. I mean, I was, but now I’m in my car. Across the road. Please, you’ve got to send someone.”

The dispatcher’s voice was both calm and authoritarian. “I’m already alerting the police and ambulance service, ma’am. Tell me where you are.”

“398 Peekskill Road.”

There was a crackle over the phone. Then the dispatcher again, this time alarmed. “Did you say 398 Peekskill Road?”

“Yes! For God’s sake, hurry.”

“Stay right where you are, ma’am. The first car will be there within five minutes. Don’t go back into the house.” The dispatcher sounded shaky now, like someone reciting a well-worn prayer during a moment of crisis.

“I won’t. I-”

The dispatcher hung up. Meg stared at the phone. Weren’t they supposed to keep her on the line until someone got there? Inside her warming car, she shivered. She wrapped her arms around herself and settled in to wait for someone to deliver her from this nightmare.