She checked the counters, saw a microwave, a toaster oven, and a stack of newspapers, but no knife block.

“Are you kidding me?” she yelled, stepping toward an opening that led to a large staircase.

The loud creak of movement on hardwood floor froze her in place. She dropped into a squat, held her breath, and waited for another sign of life.

Seconds later, a weak voice called from somewhere past the stairs. “Is there someone here?”

Definitely in the house. Hard to say whether it belonged to a male or female.

“I saw you on the camera,” the voice continued. “I’ve called the police.”

Relief washed over Caitlin. “There’s a man chasing me,” she said, following the sound toward the right, now definitively feminine, maybe a senior citizen. She moved toward the stairs, saw a room on her left full of older furniture with vinyl dust covers. “Where are you?”

“I’m on the phone with the police, just inside the parlor.”

Caitlin turned another corner, saw the house’s front entry lobby and a wainscoted opening leading to a side sitting room. Caitlin entered the parlor, saw an open laptop on a TV dinner table with a live security feed of the outside porch, but didn’t see a little old lady.

She definitely didn’t see whatever struck her in the temple, only the blossom of hot pain that drove sight from her right eye.

She collapsed onto the hardwood floor, her hand clutching at the point of impact.

Chad Branford walked out from an unseen corner. “He’s not outside, dear,” he said, his voice mimicking a little old lady, his hand once again clutching the stun gun. “He’s right here.”

Caitlin tried to stand, but a sharp kick to the jaw knocked her over again, the pain spreading everywhere. She reached out with her hands, tried to crawl.

The violent snap of the stun gun returned. “I guess you were right,” he shouted over the sound of superheated air exploding. “This does have to hurt.”

Chapter 60

CHAPTER

60

MOLD, MOIST EARTH, mildew, urine. The smells sank into the back of Caitlin’s mouth.

She opened her eyes, saw only a sliver of light. She tried to turn her head, but a strap held her down against a mattress. Same with her hands and feet.

How long has it been? Hours?

Her jaw was on fire, and her shoulder ached, probably from Branford’s stun gun, but the pain battled something narcotic that kept her thoughts dull.

Hours then.

She couldn’t see her clothing but felt the difference between what she’d been wearing and the pajama-like fabric now covering both her top and bottom—wet below her crotch. Unconscious, she’d pissed the bed, probably some dirty mattress in Branford’s second house, the farmhouse she’d run to for help.