Page 29 of Horror and Chill

He grabs his hoodie from the hook and bounds over to us. She’s right behind him, tugging at the strap on his backpack,checking his folder with one hand while straightening his sleeve with the other.

We see it then. A rectangle pressing against the side pocket of her overalls.

Her phone.

Right where we need it to be.

We step in closer. Close enough to smell her shampoo. Some kind of mint and lavender blend.

She’s still talking, praising us, saying something about how helpful it must be to have an extra set of hands.

We nod along.

“You’ve got something right here,” we murmur, lifting a hand to brush the shimmer of glitter from her cheekbone. Her breath hitches. She doesn’t step back.

She glances down at Mason.

The connection pings silently. The program launches on its own.

Sixty seconds.

She bends to help Mason tie his shoe.

Fifty.

She laughs when he says something about a skeleton book and how it’s not even Halloween yet.

Forty.

She asks if we think he’s too young to watchCoraline. We say no.

Thirty.

Twenty.

She looks up and smiles again. “Seriously. You have no idea how much this kid loves you.”

We smile back, matching hers.

Ten.

“Alright, Mason. Sorry I’m a chatter box. I won’t keep you. We’ll see you tomorrow, buddy.”

“Bye!” he chirps, darting ahead through the doorway.

Five.

We ruffle Mason’s hair and follow him out.

One.

She waves from the doorway, still smiling.

We don’t look back. Not until the car door shuts behind us. Not until we’re pulling out of the lot and the school disappears behind the windshield.

Only then do we open the laptop. The sync begins.

Everything she’s done for the last week, every step, every pin, every deleted address, will be ours by nightfall.