Reclaiming Mrs. Wolfe
"No one is out in this."
"It’s not a person," Ethan whispered. "It’s a signal."
I stood up, my heart hammering against my ribs. I looked at the small, battery-operated radio on the mantel—the one we used for weather reports. It was off, but the red power light was flickering in a rhythmic, staccato pattern.
Long-short-long. Long-long-short.
"Morse," I breathed.
Ethan grabbed the radio, his fingers moving with a blurred, high-speed precision I hadn't seen since the mill. He didn't turn it on; he opened the back, his eyes scanning the circuitry.
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