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wouldn’t get it until later. “Hi, honey, I’m scab-calling you,” he’d say. He’d scab-call when he didn’t have time to talk, but wanted her to know he was thinking of her. Stephanie wondered if he’d scab-called tonight.
    She dialed her home phone number and punched in the code for the answering machine. “You have three messages,” announced the mechanical voice. She’d checked her landline messages earlier tonight—after touching down in Pocatello. The first two she’d already heard: one from her friends, Ben and Erica Weaver, who had invited her to spend Thanksgiving with them at their cabin in Spokane. She skipped over it. The second message she’d already listened to as well. It was Scott and the kids, wishing her a Happy Thanksgiving. “Halle sends her best,” Scott had chimed in. Stephanie had figured she’d been too busy with the Turducken to come to the phone.
    She skipped to the third message—the one she hadn’t heard yet. “Thursday, eight-ten, p-m,” announced the mechanical voice.
    The phone to her ear, Stephanie stared out at the pool area and waited for Jim’s voice.
    â€œAunt Steffi?” It was CC, whispering so quietly Stephanie could barely hear her. She sounded terrified. “Oh, God, this can’t be happening. Halle, she’s . . . Aunt Steffi, she—”
    Suddenly, CC let out a startled cry. There was a strange, garbled noise, and then the line went dead.
    Stephanie’s grip tightened on the phone.
    â€œEnd of messages,” the machine announced.
    All at once, she couldn’t breathe. Her heart was racing again. She told herself not to panic. Her niece was playing a prank on her. That was what teenage girls did at eleven o’clock at night when they were bored. If it was a real emergency, why call her? She was on the other side of the country, unable to do anything.
    Speed-dialing her sister’s house, Stephanie glanced up at the clock on the mini-gym’s wall. CC had left the message about a half hour ago. Stephanie figured with the time difference, everyone else in the house was probably asleep by now—if they were all okay. She counted the ringtones, hoping to hear CC answer on the other end. Eight rings and nothing. Even the answering machine wasn’t picking up.
    Stephanie scrolled down the list of numbers on her phone, and tried CC’s cell. After two rings, Stephanie heard a click. “CC?” she asked anxiously.
    â€œThe cellular customer you’re trying to reach is not available at this time,” announced a computerized voice. “Please leave a message after the tone or hang up and try your call again later.”
    Stephanie waited for the beep. “CC, honey, what’s going on?” she asked. “I got your message on my home line. What’s happening there? You have me really scared, honey. Call me on my cell as soon as you can, okay? I’ll try to get ahold of your dad. I don’t want to contact the police unless . . .” She sighed. “Well, just call me, all right?”
    She tried Scott’s cell. After two rings, it went to voice mail—not his personal greeting, but the same automated response she’d gotten when she’d phoned CC.
    â€œScott, what’s going on there?” Stephanie asked after the prompt. “CC left a message. It sounded like someone was attacking her. And now none of you are picking up. I don’t know what to do here. Call me—on my cell.”
    It still didn’t make sense that CC would call her home phone. Her niece knew she was on the road. The only explanation was—maybe in her panic CC had dialed the first number that came to mind. It was on the top of a list of numbers by the phone in Rebecca’s kitchen.
    With a shaky hand, Stephanie dialed directory assistance for area code 914 and asked for Croton-on-Hudson, New York. She was torn between asking for