Was he there? Or was she imagining things and telling herself they were real? Or was he really there, and she was trying to convince herself she was imagining things? How would she know either way? Her mind swam in the conundrum.

Her heart beat faster as she made the rounds of the house again, checking every door, every window. He might be circling the house. He might be circling the house one door ahead of her. He could be standing inside the last door as she came to it.

Did you miss me, Lauren?

She could hear his voice as if he was right beside her, whispering the words in her ear, his mouth so close the heat of his breath scalded her skin.

She bent her head and shrugged her shoulder against her neck, trying to wipe away the moisture.

Did you miss me, Lauren?

“You bastard.”

No?

“No. I didn’t miss you. I miss the beautiful daughter you took away from me. I miss the husband I loved like he was a part of my own heart. I miss the family I will never have again because of you. I miss me.”

You missed me. You want me. That’s why you’re here.

“I didn’t miss you,” she said bitterly. “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

She wanted him to be gone. She wanted him to be dead. She raised her arm, pointed the gun at his chest, and pulled the trigger.

The explosion she should have heard sounded like her daughter’s voice crying: MOM!

“MOM!”

Leslie. Leslie was calling for her. Her daughter needed her.

“Where is she?” she demanded. “Where is she, damn you!”

He looked past her with his blank eyes as a slow, reptilian smile turned the corners of his mouth. Was it a trick?

She turned suddenly, arm still raised, gun in hand.

“MOMMY, NO!!”

Leah.

The look on her daughter’s face was horrified, stricken, lost. Her own mother had just turned on her with a loaded weapon.

Leah woke to the sound of her mother’s shouts—I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

Terrified, she came awake, sitting bolt upright in bed, her heart banging against the wall of her chest like a huge fist.

Who was in the house? Who was her mother fighting with? What was she supposed to do? Should she call 911 ? Should she get out of the house? Should she run downstairs and try to do something ?

She ran to the head of the stairs and listened, straining to hear over the roaring of her pulse in her ears. She held her breath, her hands pressed over her mouth as tears welled up in her eyes.

She expected to hear another voice shouting. She expected to hear a man’s voice. The man who had taken Leslie, maybe. But Leah couldn’t make out the other voice. Then her mother shouted again: “Where is she?”