Turning on my heel, I prepare to go back the way I came, though I’ve walked far, and this part of the neighborhood is unfamiliar. I do my best to retrace my steps in the waning light, starting to regret that I didn’t turn back sooner. Staying out after nightfall doesn’t feel wise.

I can’t tell if it’s just the paranoia I’ve drummed up in my head or something more concrete, but I suddenly have the prickly sensation of being watched.

Casting my eyes around surreptitiously, I peer at the silent streets. Despite not being able to hear much beyond my footsteps on the pavement, I have the feeling that I’m not alone. Curling my fingers into fists, I quicken my pace, eager to get home. At least houses have locks to keep people out.

I glance over my shoulder but the road behind me is empty. There’s a rustle in the bushes, and I try to convince myself that it’s not real.

A twig snaps, the sound closer this time, and I move even faster. Daylight is running out, and I have to strain to see clearly in the dim light. There are a few street lamps ahead, and I gravitate toward them. It’s easy for something to sneak up on you in the dark.

But as I grow closer, one of the lights burns out.

When I think I hear the sound of quick and heavy footsteps, I freeze, whirling around.

The night is static, and I swallow, looking around, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. Without waiting to hear anything else, I take a slow step backward, turning on my heel. It takes everything in me not to sprint, somehow feeling like a strong reaction will only give them more incentive to pursue me.

I might get accused of all of this being a product of an overactive imagination, but I have no doubt that I’m being followed. The image from my dream of Zoe smiling at me with blood staining her hands flashes through my mind.

My shoulders nearly melt in relief when the familiar sight of the house comes into view. The motion light flickers on when I reach the driveway, and I hurry to the front door, shutting it tightly behind me.

With shaking fingers, I twist the lock on the door, then exhale, leaning against it. The peace I feel is fleeting, as I remember there are other points of entry. After going around to lock every door and window and letting Scout inside, I feel only slightly better.

I sit with Scout on the living-room floor, keeping a watchful eye on my surroundings. The silence of the house is stifling, and I’m hyperaware of every tiny noise as it settles, Scout whining softly beside me.