“Miss Elizabeth,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Don’t go in there. Please leave as quickly as possible.”

I was frozen, not understanding.

“What’s going on, Maria? Is Emily okay?”

“It’s not about her,” Maria replied, her eyes wide. “It’s about you. Please trust me. It’s not safe.”

Before I could ask more questions, she glanced toward the house again and backed away.

“I need to get back before they notice. Go, Miss Elizabeth. Go.”

And with that, she ran back to the house, leaving me frozen on the sidewalk, my heart beating so loud I could hear it in my ears. What was happening? Why did Maria seem so terrified? And why had my daughter, who hadn’t spoken to me in over a year, suddenly invited me to dinner?

I went back to the car as if in a trance. My legs moved automatically while my mind tried to process the warning. I sat down, locked the doors, and started the engine. But I didn’t drive off.

Something inside me, maybe the same instinct that helped me survive an abusive marriage for 15 years before I finally found the courage to divorce, told me to stay and watch.