The waist-high corn whipped across her jeans as her canvas deck shoes sped through the mud, but she pushed hard, full-speed. She glanced back, saw Branford following behind her, but slower. She’d beat him to the farmhouse, find help, a witness or even a phone. Anything to buy time and distance. On a lazy day, she ran a ten-minute mile. A good day, an even eight. Caitlin guessed she cleared the distance between Branford’s driveway and the farmhouse in six. Lungs burning, she ran into the grass surrounding the farm and checked behind her.

No sign of Branford. Maybe he’d crouched in the corn, maybe he’d gone back. If he knew what was good for him, he’d run back home, get his car, and get the hell out of town before Caitlin got back with the cops. She inspected the farm, saw a partially collapsed garage with nothing inside and the two-story house with a long front porch. No cars in the driveway.

“Help,” she screamed, running toward the front door.

She climbed onto the porch, flung open a screen door, and pounded on the solid inner door. “Help me, please, anyone.”

She looked back, still no sign of Branford.

She knocked again, then grabbed the door handle. No give. Stepping away, she looked into a window, but saw nothing but curtains. She smacked her hand on the glass and shuffled down the width of the porch. “Please, anyone.”

In the far corner near the porch ceiling, a modern security camera aimed toward the door. She took a step back, looked directly into the lens, and screamed. “If you can see me, please send help. The man’s name is Chad Branford.”

She turned back to the corn.

Damn it.

Maybe he’d been hiding earlier, maybe she’d been blinded by adrenaline. Branford was three-quarters of the way through the corn and getting closer.

Caitlin jumped off the porch and ran around the house. A small set of cinder block steps led up to a screened-in patio. She reached for the screen door. Held in place by a hook and eye latch, the flimsy barrier shimmied in place. Caitlin put a foot against the porch frame and pulled again, full strength. The tiny lock gave way.

She scrambled into a well-kept garden of spices and vegetables, jumped over a lawn chair toward a door, and tried the knob.

Unlocked, thank God.

She opened the door into a kitchen, turned and slammed it shut behind her. Not only did it have a simple knob-lock, it had two deadbolts. She turned all three, then backed away until she bumped into a counter.

Find a phone.

She spun, inspecting the room. The cabinets and appliances looked well used but unchanged since the seventies. She scanned for a wall phone.

Nothing. No old AT&T standard. No cordless charger.

How about a knife?