Whoever it was continued down the hallway, though. Toward the kitchen. Where all the information on the case was lying about, unprotected.

Izzy pushed to her feet, keeping pressure on the couch with her free hand so that she could better control the groan of relaxing metal.

She’d lost track of the intruder now, the sound of a stranger in the house once again fading into nothingness. Izzy spared a thought toward Mia’s insomnia and wondered if she was upstairs staring at the ceiling. Then she put Mia out of her head. If Izzy didn’t move quickly, the person could get whatever they came for and leave before she even left the den.

The combination of shock and fear had given her nighttime vision a kick, and the once-blurred shapes scattered throughout the room became chairs and side tables that she skirted around with ease. Blood rushed against the thin membrane of her eardrums, and she spared a precious second calming her pulse. If she couldn’t hear, she’d be useless.

Then, counting down from three, she stepped into the hallway. She didn’t know the house well enough yet to be confident about what spots to avoid, but smooth, easy strides were better than hesitant tiptoes, so she was at the kitchen doorway in seconds.

She paused, her back plastered to the wall, her shoulder pressed into the crook. Her weapon was a solid presence against her sweatpants-clad thigh, and she slid the safety off. The click was loud, ripping apart the silence.

But she could hear the intruder again, and they didn’t pause. The unmistakable sound of a body moving, the rub of arm against hip, the scuff of shoe on tile, the inhales, the exhales. Izzy tracked it all.

When the intruder stepped toward the sink, away from the back door, Izzy knew it was time.

She wished she could close her eyes, center herself once more, but she didn’t want to blow her night vision.

Instead, she took a breath, brought her gun up, and stepped into the kitchen. “Hands up,” Izzy said, her voice deliberately loud enough to catch Mia’s attention if she was awake. “Nice and slow.”

The intruder went rigid, shoulders locking up.

Izzy’s eyes swept down to the person’s grip. Shit, shit, shit. A weapon. She couldn’t tell if it was a knife or a gun, and she didn’t want to fumble on the wall for the light switch.

“Put your fucking hands in the air,” she said, using her deepest register. Details were seeping in past her initial fight response. Slim, swallowed by a black sweatshirt, with the hood up. Stance was wide, ready to run. She knew exactly what that little head tilt toward the back door meant. The person was going for it.