“I know John never forgave you. Because of that he cannot get into heaven. Come with me tonight, and I’ll show you the way to forgiveness.”

“I have to go.” Turning abruptly, I run to the door, throw the lock.

He reaches the door at the same time I do and sets his palm against it, blocking me. He bows his head slightly, his face coming within inches of mine. Too close. “Wait.”

“No.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I have to go.”

He straightens, his expression disapproving, disappointed. “All right.” His eyes go to the window. “It’s dark and snowing. At least let me hitch the buggy and drive you home.”

“I’ve got the scooter bike.”

He looks at me for what seems like an eternity. As if he’s trying to decide whether to let me go. For an instant, I’m afraid he won’t. I’m not incapacitated; I’m armed and able to defend myself. But I’m impaired. And for the first time, he’s frightened me.

After an interminable moment, he opens the door. “As you wish.”

I rush through. My head spins as I cross the porch to the steps and stumble down them. What did he put in that coffee? The tox screen done on Rachel Esh showed she had OxyContin in her blood. Was it from Schrock? Is that what he gave me? Something worse?

At the foot of the steps, I glance over my shoulder, find him at the door leaning against the jam.

Goddamn predator.

“Be careful out there, Kate Miller,” he calls out. “It’s very, very cold.”

I feel eyes tracking me as I walk swiftly through the falling snow. I wonder if he’s laughing because my coordination is off. The son of a bitch. A chill that has nothing to do with the falling temperature hovers at the base of my spine. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder until I reach the trees, where I break into a run.

I’m out of breath when I reach the scooter bike near the end of the lane. As I push it toward the road, I notice there’s at least two inches of new snow, and I hope I can get the damn thing home.

It’s not easy. After a few hundred yards, I get off and push it the way a kid would push a bike with a flat tire. All the while I fret over what I might have ingested, my mind replaying every moment. The way he looked at me. The way he touched me. The things he said and the manner in which he said them.