What was she supposed to do? Call Mendez? And tell him what? Someone had left a note in her mailbox? She couldn’t prove Ballencoa had left it. It was ridiculous to think he would be so foolish as to leave something with his fingerprints on it. And what if he had? It wasn’t a threat. What could Mendez do? Arrest him for not using a stamp on the envelope?

She could call Greg Hewitt and hire him back to watch over her. An idea she rejected immediately, mortified at the idea of facing him again.

She was upset. She was angry. She was frightened.

Did you miss me?

How had he found her here? Only a few people had this address. She had been vague with the few people she had told about the move to Oak Knoll. She had said they needed a change of scenery, but that they hadn’t settled, didn’t have a permanent location, weren’t sure when they would be coming back. She had alienated so many of her former friends, none had pressed her for details. For a certainty, they had been relieved to have her gone.

How had Roland Ballencoa known? When had he seen her? When had he followed her? Had he followed her home from the shooting range? How could she not have known? How could she not have seen him? How could she not have sensed he was there? There was one road to this property. If someone had followed her . . . Mendez had followed her that day and she hadn’t noticed.

He was out there. For all she knew, he was watching her this minute. It was one thing for her to know where he lived. It was quite another for him to know where she lived—where she and Leah lived.

Did you miss me?

She dropped the note as if touching it was somehow making a connection to him, as if the card was made of his skin.

She felt desperate in every way she could imagine.

And she was on her own to deal with it.

Once again she thought of Lance. The pain of not having him with her was like a knife to her heart, but instead of blood, hot fury boiled out of the wound.

How could you leave me to this? How could you leave Leah? You should be the one dealing with this evil monster, not me.

“God damn you, Lance,” she whispered bitterly. Doubled over, elbows on her thighs, she put her head in her hands. “God damn you. Why couldn’t you stay and fight? Why couldn’t you fight for us?”