Riley woke to the sound of nothing.
No cartoons murmuring from the living room. No bare feet racing down the hall. No two boys arguing over who had taken the last of the jam.
The homestead was so quiet she could hear the clock above the stove ticking from the other end of the house.
Quiet, in a house with the twins in it, was never a good sign.
She lay still and let last night come back to her. Colin had come in late from the porch with the cold still clinging to his coat, and something had been written all over his face.
He had not told her what. He had only stopped outside her door and said, "Sleep, Riley. We'll talk in the morning."
She had not slept. Not really.
Now it was morning, and her stomach had already worked out what her mind was still refusing to.
