Bolton shook his head. “Of a woman and a little girl.”

“Grace,” I said.

32

I was the first one out of Angie’s house. I had a cellular phone to my ear as I stepped onto the porch and several government cars screeched up Howes.

“Grace?”

“Yeah?”

“You okay?” I slipped on some black ice and righted myself by grabbing the railing as Angie and Bolton came onto the porch next.

“What? You woke me up. I have to work at six. What time is it?”

“Ten. Sorry.”

“Can we talk in the morning?”

“No. No. I need you to stay on the line and check all your doors and windows.”

The cars slid to stops in front of the house.

“What? What’s all that noise?”

“Grace, check your doors and windows. Make sure they’re all locked.”

I made my way to the slick sidewalk. The trees above were heavy and shimmering with daggers of ice. The street and sidewalk were a black glaze.

“Patrick, I—”

“Do it now, Grace.”

I hopped in the back of the lead car, a dark blue Lincoln, and Angie sat beside me. Bolton sat up front and gave the driver Grace’s address.

“Go.” I slapped the driver’s headrest. “Go. Go.”

“Patrick,” Grace said, “what’s going on?”

“You check the doors?”

“I’m checking them now. Front door is locked. Cellar door is locked. Hang on, I’m heading to the back.”

“Car coming up on our right,” Angie said.

Our driver punched the gas as we shot through the intersection heading south and the car racing toward us from the east locked up his brakes on the ice and blared his horn and skidded across the intersection as the caravan of cars behind us jerked right and cruised around his back end.

“Back door’s locked,” Grace said. “I’m checking windows now.”

“Good.”

“You’re scaring the shit out of me.”

“I know. I’m sorry. The windows.”

“Front bedroom and living room, all locked. I’m going into Mae’s room. Locked, locked…”

“Mommy?”

“It’s okay, honey. Stay in bed. I’ll be right back.”

The Lincoln spun onto the 93 on-ramp doing at least sixty. The back wheels skipped over a bubble of ice or frozen slush and banged against the divider.

“I’m in Annabeth’s room,” Grace whispered. “Locked. Locked. Open.”

“Open?”

“Yeah. She left it open just a crack.”

“Shit.”

“Patrick, tell me what’s going on.”

“Close it, Grace. Close it.”

“I did. What do you think—”

“Where’s your gun?”

“My gun? I don’t own one. I hate guns.”

“A knife then.”

“What?”

“Get a knife, Grace. Jesus. Get a—”

Angie ripped the phone out of my hand and shushed me with a finger to her lips.

“Grace, it’s Ange. Listen. You may be in danger. We’re not sure. Just stay on the line with me and don’t move unless you’re sure there’s an intruder in there with you.”

The exit signs flew past—Andrew Square, Massachusetts Avenue—and the Lincoln swerved onto Frontage Road, passed the industrial waste and Big Dig refuse in a blur as we hurtled toward East Berklee.