“Mom!”
I hurried toward the kitchen.
Then a voice came from the back porch.
“Emily?”
I turned.
My mother stood in the doorway, wrapped in a neighbor's cardigan.
Her face was pale.
I ran to her.
She collapsed into my arms.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
I simply held her, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender soap.
“I'm okay,” she whispered.
But her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
“The man got inside,” she explained. “He broke the window beside the door. I ran through the kitchen and climbed over the fence into Mrs. Donnelly's yard.”
Detective Harris approached.
“Did you recognize him?”
My mother hesitated.
“No.”
“Had you seen him before?”
Again, that hesitation.
“No. Never.”
I noticed her fingers twisting the edge of the cardigan.
My mother had always done that when she was nervous.
But there was something else in her expression.
Something that looked dangerously close to recognition.
