Then a woman’s voice, low but intense, from the other side of the front door.

“Maya. Open up. Now.”

It was Denise.

Our neighbor.

She lived two houses down in our subdivision outside Tulsa, Oklahoma. Mid-fifties, widowed, retired from county records—the kind of woman who noticed everything and forgot nothing. She wasn’t prone to drama. Which was exactly why I crossed the hallway barefoot, my pulse already rising.

When I opened the door, Denise stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. She wore jeans, a rain jacket over a T-shirt, no makeup. Under the porch light, her face looked drained.

“Pack a bag,” she said. “Right now. Your family isn’t who they say they are.”

For a moment, I just stared at her.

“My what?”