"That's it," Lori said. "Anastasia, get up. We are going to the club."
During dinner, Lori finally snapped. She dropped her fork onto her plate with a loud clang.
Four days had passed in the house in Phoenix. The air inside felt heavy and thick with fear. No one talked about the roses on the porch, but no one forgot them either.
Lori was exhausted. She hated the quiet. She hated the way Anastasia jumped at every small sound.
Anastasia shook her head immediately. "Lori, no. I don't think it's a good idea. We should stay inside."
"We have been inside for forty-eight hours," Lori argued. She looked at Dylan, who was picking at his food. "And you, too. You're coming. I am tired of acting like we are waiting for a funeral."
"Lori, the locks... the cameras..." Dylan started to say.
"The locks are high-tech, and the cameras are recording," Lori interrupted.
