Emma Foster opened her eyes in the darkness, filled with the sudden knowledge that something was terribly wrong. She listened hard, straining her ears for any noise that was out of place. Nothing sounded amiss—the refrigerator hummed quietly in the kitchen; the ceiling fan ticked softly over her head. But despite the absence of obvious issues, the house didn’t feel right.

She slipped out of bed, stepping lightly to avoid making too much noise. She’d had a devil of a time getting Christina to sleep tonight—her normally cheerful and good-natured ten-month-old daughter was teething and grumpy with it, which made for long nights. The baby had finally surrendered to exhaustion about an hour ago, and Emma had slipped off to her own bed for a few stolen moments of sleep. Everything had seemed fine at the time, but now she couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.

She headed for the front door, knowing that it was locked but needing to check it again for her own peace of mind. Sure enough, the dead bolt was secure, just as she’d left it earlier in the evening. The windows were all shut, the blinds lowered into place. There was no sign of any trouble, nothing to explain the sense of dread that weighed on her.

Moments like this made her miss Chris all the more. He wouldn’t have hesitated to wake up with her, to double-check all the locks and peek into the closets and under the beds until she was certain they were safe. He’d been a perfect boyfriend and fiancé—Emma had no doubt he would have been a wonderful husband to her and a fantastic father to their little girl.

For the millionth time, she cursed the driver who had decided sending a text message was more important than paying attention to the road. Chris had stopped at a red light when he’d been hit from behind and pushed into cross traffic, where he’d been hit again by a bus and a garbage truck. Chris had died at the scene before the firemen could even get him out of the mangled wreck of his car.

Emma hadn’t known she was pregnant at the time. She’d been so busy working and wrapping up the plans for their wedding that she’d assumed the fatigue and upset stomach were due to stress. After the accident, she’d been so consumed with grief she hadn’t paid attention to her symptoms. It had been her mother who put two and two together and suggested she take a pregnancy test.

She could still remember the feeling of shock that had washed over her when she’d realized the test was positive. She and Chris had talked about starting a family soon after they got married, but Emma had figured that dream died along with him. Finding out she was pregnant with Chris’s baby had eased her grief a bit and had brought a spot of joy back into her life.

Chris had been gone a year and a half now, but Emma saw his face every time she looked at their daughter. Christina had her father’s blue eyes, impish smile and love of avocados. Emma had never gotten over losing Chris, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that a small part of him lived on.

She paused in the hallway outside Christina’s door, silently debating. Should she try to slip into her daughter’s room to check on her, even though there was a very real possibility of waking her up? Or should she leave well enough alone and go back to bed?

Better not risk it, Emma decided. Christina had had a hard enough time going to bed earlier—if she woke her up, it might take hours to get her back down again.

Emma headed in the direction of her bedroom but stopped after a few steps. The sense of wrongness returned, as sudden and intense as before. The urge to see her daughter built with every heartbeat until she felt her chest might burst with it. She turned and walked back toward the nursery, forcing herself to move as quietly as possible so as not to wake the baby.

Panic lapped at the edges of her worry as she twisted the knob and pushed against the door. The dim glow of the night-light provided just enough illumination to see the crib and the still form lying on the mattress.

She’s fine, Emma told herself. But she crept closer, wanting to see her baby’s face and hear the soft sighs of her breathing.

She reached the edge of the crib and looked down, expecting to see Christina’s chubby cheeks and rosebud mouth relaxed in sleep. But all she found was a crumpled blanket lying in the spot where she had placed her daughter only an hour before.

Emma gripped the edge of the crib, her mind refusing to comprehend what she was seeing. “No,” she whispered numbly. “It’s not possible.”

The

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