The bass-range hum of the engine woke her. It sounded exactly like Jack’s Mustang to her. She knew that sound so well because she’d listened for it for three years, and she’d heard it every time he’d come home from work, so it gave her a warm, happy feeling. She opened her eyes, but it was still dark. Maybe it was a different car, because Jack wasn’t supposed to be home until after seven in the morning. She sat up and listened. It sure sounded like Jack’s Mustang. She looked at the red numerals of the clock on the stand beside the bed. It was only 1:28.

She looked out the window. It was Jack’s Mustang. And what would he be doing arriving at the house just after one? Was Jack coming home sick or hurt?

She got up, stepped into the slippers by her side of the bed, and ran out into the hallway. Because it was a hot night, she hadn’t worn the sweatpants and football shirt she often wore. She’d put on a pair of shorts and a tank top. She hurried down the staircase.

When she was almost to the first floor, she heard a key in the front door and the doorknob turned, but the door didn’t open. She had set the deadbolt because she was alone, and that didn’t open with the key. She hurried to the entrance, turned the lever that made the deadbolt retract into the door, and tugged the knob. As the door swung open, she said, “Jack, what’s—”

The door was pushed inward hard and as it hit the wall, a man was already charging inside, reaching out for her like a creature in a nightmare. The man was wearing Jack’s new blue shirt.

5

Leah Hawkins was six feet two inches tall and bony, with unruly, wiry hair the color of clover honey that she had confined in a tight bun. Tonight she wore her navy blue version of the suit that many female cops wore. The jacket was tailored to hang from her shoulders without curving in much at the waist, so the sidearm she wore on her belt wouldn’t cause a bulge.