A door opened, in the hallway behind Monica. A girl, on the gawky end of preadolescence, with hair the color of her mother's, leaned out into the hallway.
"Mom?" she said in a quavering voice.
"Mom, are you okay? Do you want me to call the police?"
A boy, perhaps a year or two younger than his sister, poked his head out, too. He was carrying a well- used basketball in his hands, turning it in nervous little gestures.
I looked back to Monica. Her eyes were closed. There were tears coming, trailing down her cheeks. It took her a moment, but she drew in a breath and spoke to the girl in a clear, calm voice, without turning around.
"I'm fine," she told them.
"Jenny, Billy, get back into the room and lock the door. I mean it."
"But Mom—" the boy began.
"Now," Monica said.
Her voice was strained.
Jenny put a hand on her brother's shoulder.
