“You came home after me, Orrin.” Julie did not take her eyes off the intruder. There could only be one reason he was here. But how on earth had Luther St. Vincent found out about Orrin’s electronic investigation? “I’m aware of all of NSA’s ungodly methods,” he had said. Clearly not.

Orrin had his hands up. “I don’t know what you want, but take anything. Just leave us in peace.”

The intruder went over to the kitchen countertop, briefly paged through the file on Luther St. Vincent.

“Oh, god.” Now Orrin got it. His gaze was fixed on the file, which, Julie now realized, he never should have taken out of the office. It would mean his job, his career. He’d be finished in the public sector—doubtless the private one, as well.

But Julie was looking where she should be looking—in the intruder’s eyes—and she saw the twitching of his face when it should have been still, the rolling of his eyes when they should have been focused on either the file or on Orrin. She moved just before he did, and was on him as he drew his weapon, a snub-nose Glock revolver. He pushed her roughly aside, against the kitchen counter, but she came back at him as he leveled his gun at Orrin, who turned and ran down the hallway. The intruder grabbed her throat, squeezing with unholy strength.

Julie gasped, brought her knee up hard into his groin, then, as he grunted, pitching his torso slightly forward in reflex, she clawed at his face. This caused an astonishing chain of events that happened so quickly they seemed to occur all at once. The intruder let her go, dropped his revolver, and fell to his knees. Now his facial muscles seemed to be spasming wildly, his eyes opened so wide they showed the whites all around. He began to claw at his face, just as she had done, but more deeply. His nails dug beneath the skin, ripping into the fascia and muscle beneath. His eyes found hers; they seemed to cry out to her for help or for solace, she could not tell which.

Blood welled up, streaking his face. His chest was heaving violently, his mouth working. But only a series of grunts issued from it; he looked to be in agony beyond imagining. Then, with what seemed an extraordinary effort, his gaze went from her to the Glock lying on the floor between them. His gaze rose again. He was as grave as a judge about to pronounce sentence, and she knew what he was asking of her.

“I can’t.” She tried to back away, but the kitchen counter was in her way. She tried to brush past him, but he clutched her leg with one hand. “I can’t.”