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My phone charger was still plugged into the other outlet.

Empty.

“I didn’t do that,” I said.

Dad went still.

I didn’t have to look at my parents directly to know they shared a look.

It passed above me. Between them.

That old married-parent language I was not supposed to understand.

Sunshine set the gun carefully on the nightstand. “Honey,” she began. “It was a long time ago, but you did use to have those night terrors.”

My stomach tightened.

“And when they got bad,” she continued gently, “sometimes you sleepwalked. It could be very disorienting.”

I stared at her. “You think I did this?”

“No,” she said immediately. “I think we don’t know.”

Dad had tucked his gun into the back of his waistband and taken out his cell.

“That’s exactly what we know,” he said. “Nothing yet.”

That was Dad. Evidence first.

He tapped at his phone. “I’ll do the Find My Phone thing.”

They thought it might all be in my head. Who could blame them?

Even I couldn’t figure out what had happened.

Worse, the sleepwalking explanation fit.

It fit too well. I could have gotten up.

Unplugged things. Moved my phone.

Gone back to bed. Dreamed the rest.

Maybe.

As though none of us could help ourselves, Sunshine and I followed Dad around the house while he searched for my phone.

He activated the sound. Nothing.

Living room. Nothing.

Kitchen. Nothing.

Study. Hall closet. Laundry room. Dad checked absurd places because Dad was Dad.

Inside the pantry. Under couch cushions. Behind the recliner.

Nothing.