A spring dug into the space just to the right of Izzy’s shoulder blade, the tip of the coil pressing up against her spine. She shifted and the couch moaned, the protest too loud in the silence that had settled into the house.

Izzy and Mia hadn’t had much time in the afternoon before the snowfall became prohibitive. They’d managed to knock on a few doors, but with little result. Yeah, the reporter had been in town; yeah, he’d been asking questions about suicide. Yeah, Mia’s name came up. Usually, then, whomever they were interviewing would either not be able to meet Mia’s eyes or would stare at her, hungry for her reaction.

It had left Izzy slightly nauseated, and she almost welcomed the relief of secluding themselves into the relative safety of Edie Hart’s kitchen to tear through journals they couldn’t even understand.

Izzy bent her knee up now, her heel dipping into the space between the cushions. The move revealed more metal lurking beneath the thin fabric, this time at her hip.

Giving up on the promise of sleep, she sat up fully, blinking hard to get the indistinct blobs in the room to come into focus as furniture instead of monsters. Moonlight slid over the carpet but wasn’t bright enough to fully banish the darkness.

She yawned and then reached for her phone where it was plugged into the wall outlet. Only when she was opening her email did she hear it—a footfall against a stubborn spot on the floor.

Then it was quiet again. This time the hush was different, though, more of a pause than the natural creaks and groans of the night.

If the person had been Mia, they wouldn’t have frozen, and Izzy would be able to hear her move toward the kitchen or the bathroom. But there was nothing. Just that one high-pitched whine of settling wood.

Izzy dropped her phone on the couch beside her and reached for the gun she’d kept tucked underneath on the floor. Her fingertips curled easily around the grip, and she breathed out through her nose, controlling the relief that slipped through her from the weight of the weapon.

She didn’t stand yet, didn’t trust the couch not to betray her. So she listened, her muscles poised to spring into action, her head tilted to pick up on any movement from the hallway.

It was another twenty seconds of silence before there was a rustle of fabric against fabric. If Izzy hadn’t been paying attention, the noise would have blended and melted into the static of wind and house and breathing.

But now that she could pinpoint it, the person’s steps weren’t hard to follow. They paused at the bottom of the stairs, just outside the den. Izzy waited. If they started up the steps, she’d have to act. Mia and Edie were vulnerable, unaware.