The house was too quiet.

Too perfect.

Anya padded barefoot across the polished hardwood floor, the hum of the fridge the only sound in the otherwise silent suburban palace. She had been babysitting here for weeks now, a few evenings here and there while Mrs. Harding ran errands, but tonight the house felt… different. Empty in a way

She knew she shouldn’t snoop. She wasn’t that kind of girl. But temptation had a way of chewing at her when she was alone in this house. Mrs. Harding wasn’t like the other moms she babysat for. She wasn’t dumpy or distracted. She was composed. Beautiful in a way that was dangerous....