I studied my cup, frowning. Had I brewed decaf by accident? Not very likely, since I’d never bought the stuff in my life. I’d read those forwards on the Web about how they used embalming fluid to take the pizzazz out of the java.

No way, Juan. I was only planning to be embalmed once, and not in the immediate future, either.

A fog rolled in, clouding my brain. I seemed to be wandering in a dream sequence, only I was awake. Wasn’t I?

I rubbed my temples with the fingertips of both hands.

Sniffed the coffee.

What did caffeine smell like?

Wooziness overtook me.

Disjointed thoughts queued in my head and kept changing places. The intracranial version of the maypole dance.

Then I felt a sudden rush of relief.

Of course.

I was simply tired.

I’d lived a lifetime in the last twenty-four hours, without sleeping, and now it was catching up to me. I’d just lie down—yes—and grab a few winks. When I woke up, Jolie and Greer would be there.

Or Tucker, bearing good news. Daisy’s little friend—Gillian, wasn’t it—had been found safe and sound. It was all just a big mistake. Little girls didn’t really disappear from dance rehearsals in the middle of the day, surrounded by dedicated parents.

Of course they didn’t.

I yawned, smiled and padded out of the kitchen, through the living room, and into my bedroom. I tossed back the covers and sank into the soft, soft mattress.

I would have sworn somebody tucked me in.

Lillian?

It would be nice to think that, I reflected. I tried to open my eyes and find out, but the lids felt heavy as manhole covers.

I slept, deeply and dreamlessly.

If the phone rang, I didn’t hear it.

If anybody knocked at the door, ditto.

I was completely out of it.

Still, the faintest sound awakened me.

The room was in twilight, but I had no idea what time it was.

I stretched.

Sat up.

Swung my legs over the side to stand.

And hands grasped my ankles, from underneath the bed, as soon as my feet touched the floor.

In the first instant, I couldn’t believe it was actually happening.

I used to scare myself with that scenario, when I was a very little kid. Before the murders. I’d always thought I’d scream, and someone would rush to my rescue, but now, even though I opened my mouth, all that came out was a garbled squeak.

I struggled.

The hands were strong—they gave a powerful wrench and I plunged to the floor, banging my right shoulder, still healing from the scissors wounds. Hyper-pain spiraled through me.

I still couldn’t scream.

The hands released me, and the monster crawled out from under the bed, grinning.

Geoff.

I kicked violently, rolled onto my side, my knees—get away, get away—but he threw me down again.