One thing was for sure—someone was going to have to stick their neck out and figure out what to do next. Per usual, no one else was showing up for the job.

With a deep inhale and a slow exhalation, she eased her backpack out of the way enough to feel for the release latch in the dark. The cold metal was a welcome brush against her fingertips, but the tiny click that came as she slid it aside felt gunshot loud.

She paused and listened, the air from her father’s bedroom swooshing through the tiny crack she’d created and gently stirring whips of hair against her face and neck.

But other than that—nothing. No movement. No voices. Just an absolute void of activity.

She nudged the door just wide enough to slip free and ducked beneath her father’s clothes. One painstaking step after the other, she rounded the unmade bed to the open bedroom door. A peek down the hallway showed absolutely nothing but the tan shag carpet that should’ve been replaced five years ago and a beam of overcast light from the side window Kevin had uncovered.

Sticking close to the wall, she tiptoed forward, pausing at the two bedrooms along the way to glance inside. Her heart pounded and her lungs clamored for air as if she’d sprinted a mile. At the corner where the hallway opened up to the living room, she hesitated, closed her eyes and braced. Whatever was on the other side, she could handle. She’d had more than ample training dealing with crap like this her whole life. This was just another drop in the bucket.

She pressed one hand to the wall and leaned forward...

Nothing.

Not a single soul.

But the bills and junk mail that had littered the coffee table were all over the floor and her dad’s recliner was turned at an odd angle. The front door had been left open just a crack with only the screen door keeping the cool January air at bay.

So, what? They just left her here? Forgot she was hiding in the closet?

No, her family was crazy and unreliable as hell, but they weren’t so callous as to leave her hiding in a cramped space. Not unless they were drunk, anyway. Which had been known to happen a time or two growing up, especially when a special school event had clashed with a roaring party.

With a sharp huff, she slid her backpack off her shoulder, sat it in front of the end table and went to shut the front door. The last thing she needed was someone else unexpected showing up while she tried to figure out what the heck was going on.

She shoved the door flush with the jamb—and froze.

Was that blood?

Reopening the door to let in the light, she shifted for a better look.

It was blood. A decent-sized streak of it that carried across the doorjamb at standing height. A quick check outside showed two fat drops on the stoop as well.