I shut the door behind them and then hear Max’s voice. “What the hell? Mom!” he calls out.

I fling open the door. “What is it?” I ask, scanning the yard and street in front of us, searching for any sign of trouble. Max and Nikki stay facing me and that’s when I realize I’m looking in the wrong direction. I turn and though it’s still dark out the porch lamp casts a weak light that illuminates slashes of red paint across the aluminum siding. I have to take a few steps backward to take in the full measure of what I’m seeing. Murderer—U R Next. And below these words, the message is signed, Wither.

“I’m going to kill Clint,” Max says, his face set in determination, making me believe that he means it.

“You have to ignore him.” Nikki pulls on his arm. “He’s trying to get to you.”

“How can I ignore this?” Max asks, gesturing toward the front of the house. “He’s such an asshole.”

“Max,” I warn. “You do not go over to Clint’s. Do you understand? The last thing I need right now is for you to get arrested. Besides, you don’t know he did it. It could be the person who attacked Cora. This is just crazy! Come back inside.”

“I really have to get home,” Nikki says, glancing anxiously over at Max. “I’m going to get into a lot of trouble if I don’t get back before my mom wakes up.”

“Mom, we’ll be fine,” Max insists. “I promise I won’t go over to Clint’s. But if I catch him in our yard ever again, I’m going to beat his ass.”

Once they pull away I examine the graffiti more closely. Definitely spray paint and already dry to the touch. I scan the dark street, wondering if the vandals are hiding in the shadows. Did a group of bratty kids do this? Or maybe it’s a genuine threat on Violet’s life. I shiver.

Boomer sniffs around the yard and focuses his attention on an object lying in the grass. I walk over to take a look at what he’s found. A can of spray paint. I leave it on the ground where it sits and go inside to call the police.

An officer shows up within minutes and takes my statement. He knows all about what happened in the train yard so I don’t have to go over those details but I do fill him in on how Clint Phelps acted at the police station earlier in the day.

I watch as the officer slips on gloves and places the spray can in a plastic bag and then takes a few pictures of the front of the house. The words, sprayed in sharp red slashes across the house, make me feel dirty, guilty. I don’t want the neighbors to see them.