I’m tucking the corner of the note under the coffeemaker, thinking about going upstairs for one more peek at the bassinet before jumping into the shower, when the back door creaks. I turn from the coffeemaker to see the door open a couple of inches, pushed by a gust of wind. Uneasiness flutters in my gut. Tomasetti is far too cautious to leave any door unlocked. Then I notice the sheen of rain on the floor. The sparkle of broken glass. A smear of mud on the tile. And I know someone’s in the house.

Adrenaline ignites and spreads to my arms and legs with enough force to make me shake. My every sense flashes to high alert. The hum of the refrigerator. The din of rain against the roof. The slap of water against the ground. The hiss of the radio I left on in the bedroom upstairs. Outside, thunder rumbles like the footfalls of some massive primordial beast. My first thought is that Nick Kester found out where I live and has broken in. My second thought falls to my .38, which is lying on the night table upstairs next to the bed.

I set down the cup of coffee. My eyes dart to my cell phone charging on the counter a few feet away. I lunge at it, yank out the cord, and hit 911 with my thumb. Never taking my eyes from the door, I take a step back and look over my shoulder at the stairs. The living room is silent and dark, but that doesn’t mean someone isn’t there, intent on doing me harm.

I’m about to charge up the steps, when someone comes around from the front of the house. Even in the dim light I recognize Kester. He’s wearing blue jeans. Pistol grip sticking out of his waistband. Dirty denim jacket. His hair is soaked and dripping, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I smell the cigarette stench coming off him. For an instant, he looks surprised to see me.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

He jolts at the sound of the tinny voice. His eyes dart to the cell phone in my hand.

“Sheriff’s Department is on the way,” I tell him. “You’d better run.”

His mouth opens. I see jagged yellow teeth from within pale lips. A flash of uncertainty in his eyes. A glint of something ugly just beneath the surface. His right hand twitches, moves toward the pistol.

I hurl the cell phone, striking him beneath his left eye hard enough to open the skin. He reels back, hands coming up. “What the fuck!”

Spinning, I grab the banister, swing around it, and fly up the steps two at a time. Kester bellows a curse. I reach the top of the stairs. My stocking feet slide on the hardwood floor. I scramble left and sprint down the hall, arms outstretched.