Embower thought back through the day.

This man knew I was in class because he followed me to work.

“The truck.”

He returned to the Branford feed. Earlier, he’d looked for someone coming up the driveway. This time, he kept his eyes on the road. At 1:12, the red and white pickup passed the house going toward the quarry. At 1:56, the same truck went the other way. Embower loaded the front-door feed again but watched the interior in front of the staircase this time. 1:38. A dark shadow walked from the foyer onto the staircase. Halfway to the landing, his face passed the camera.

This idiot thinks he’s smart. He has no idea who he’s messing with.

Embower picked up his phone, dialed the Bloomington Police Department. “Someone broke into my house, and I can identify him.”

Chapter 77

CHAPTER

77

AT BREAKFAST, HE’D told her he’d be gone all day. Caitlin had been working since nine AM, starting with the handcuff slot in the door. The wad of toilet paper she’d wedged in the corner of the sliding panel wouldn’t stop the slot from functioning, but the extra half inch of space might let some fresh air in, or Embower’s gas out. Next she attacked his airborne delivery method; the overhead fan. The camera over the bed tilted down, so he could see toward the fan, though not the ceiling unit itself. Any move she made in that direction would have to look natural, or at least motivated.

For half an hour, Caitlin went stir-crazy, starting on the bed. She stood on the sheets, walked back and forth, then hopped down and paced around the table. Then she climbed up the chair to the tabletop, running her hands through her hair, reaching up, touching the ceiling. She hopped down, walked toward the bed, then the door, then climbed back on the table with items from the storage shelves tucked into her pajamas. More crazy arms, more why-God-whys toward the ceiling, her hands working off-camera. After five more trips spread over an hour, she’d done all she could to the fan. Every action in the five hours since had focused on loosening the drain cover with her foot while appearing to read.

She poured the last bottle of Sprite under the table and checked the alarm clock.

5:42 PM.

She pushed the ball of her foot against the drain. The carbonation bubbled around her toes in the half inch of standing liquid.

Two hours back, she’d felt her first wiggle. She shifted her focus from clogging the drain to getting the cover off its mount. Now she felt the metal disc slide back and forth, maybe a quarter of an inch worth of give.

The groove of the metal bit into her skin. Her left foot bled freely. She switched feet. The fizzle stopped, she didn’t.