Neither shot seemed to hit the man. He disappeared past the edge of the open doorframe, crashing into something metal just out of view—maybe the same old grill that had stood on that spot when Danica was a kid.

Another thudding kick hit the front door. The latch held, but something wooden cracked and groaned.

“Dani, come on!”

Carl still had her by the arm, but he wasn’t pulling her toward the slider now. He was leading her across the room, toward the front of the house again.

“Carl—”

“Basement. Go ahead of me.”

He still had his eyes on the empty frame of the slider. The gun, too.

He let go of her arm and jerked his head toward the basement door, which stood in the short hall between the living room and the front entry.

“Go,” Carl hissed.

Danica moved past him. She crossed the room, almost running now, her movements feeling dream-slowed, her thoughts not much better. Passing into the entry hall, she saw the front door buffeted by another heavy impact. She fumbled for the knob of the basement door, got her hand on it, turned it and hauled it open. The basement stairs dropped away into pitch darkness before her, only the top few steps visible. There had never been any windows down there.

Behind her, Carl fired another shot toward the patio. Then he was right at her back, pushing her through the doorway atop the stairs, his free hand on her shoulder to keep her from falling. He used the wrist of his gun hand to flip the light switch above the steps. The exposed bulb at the bottom of the staircase flared to life.

Bare concrete floor, cinderblock walls, two-by-twelve pine stair treads running down. Everything the same as it had ever been. Danica was three steps down when she heard a shot from the living room. Carl made a grunting sound, like someone had punched him in the stomach, and Danica felt his weight suddenly fall against her. She saw the yellow envelope hit the stairs at her feet. It cartwheeled to the bottom, tearing open, papers scattering on the concrete.

“Keep going,” Carl said.

She could hear it in his voice already—sluggishness, like it taxed him even to speak.

Danica took the next step, and the next, fast but careful, letting him rest against her as she went.

Above and behind her, footsteps pounded across the living room. In the same instant the front door burst in, crashing into the wall between the entry and the kitchen.

She felt Carl pivot against her, almost throwing her off balance. He fired again, three fast shots, and somebody upstairs cried out and hit the floor.

A second later Danica reached the bottom of the steps, Carl still keeping up with her—he was clinging to her now, one arm looped over her shoulder, most of his weight pushing down on her.

“I’ve got you,” she said.