She hesitated only a second before walking out onto the deck and down to the backyard. They walked side by side, his eyes scanning the woods behind the house. She had neighbors, but they were far enough away that he could barely see their houses through the trees.

At a basement window, the woman peered in and saw Pip sitting on the couch, the back of his head bobbing slightly to the music of a cartoon. The little boy was oblivious to their presence.

As Sandy watched her son, the man pulled the garrote from the pocket of his hoodie, a paintbrush handle in each hand. His heart pounded, and he had to swallow to keep the bile from creeping up his throat. He wanted to run away. He wanted to throw up. He didn’t want to do this—but he had no choice.

He quickly looped the garrote around her neck and pulled it tight.

The woman grabbed for her throat, but the thin wire dug deeply into her skin. She clawed at his gloved hands, but made no sound. How could she?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

He wanted to explain. He wanted her to know that her death had a purpose, but how could he tell her? “I’m sorry,” he said again.

As the fight left her body, her legs gave out and the two of them dropped to the ground. Her hands and arms went limp, and her head fell loose on her shoulders—but she was not yet dead. He knew that she would go unconscious within a few seconds, but death would take a couple minutes, at least. He kept the pressure on as tears soaked the wool of his mask.

His stomach started to heave, and he swallowed to stop what seemed inevitable now. Just a few more seconds. When he could no longer hold it back, he let go of the garrote, pulled his ski mask off his head, and puked into the cap. He would leave no DNA. That was the plan.

CHAPTER 8

When his stomach stopped heaving, Spud sat back on his heels and wiped his chin with his sleeve. Sandy lay next to him, dead—her lips blue, her face pale, her eyes open and dry. He looked around to be certain no one had seen him. Then a shudder rose up from somewhere deep inside and he started crying, hard tears that shook him as they fell. He was a murderer. He’d taken a life. He clutched at the grass beneath him to keep from collapsing. What had he done?

He took a breath and focused on why he was there. He was saving the boy, wasn’t he? And he was keeping his word. Spud had made a deal with the devil—and the devil had already honored his part. And anyway, the debt would have been paid, one way or another. Spud promised himself that he had done the right thing.

As strength returned to his knees, he put the garrote back into his pocket, lifted Sandy’s dead body onto his shoulders, and carried her to the garage, where he placed her body in the back of her SUV. It was just past nine o’clock. David would be home before eleven and Spud had a thousand tasks to do.