Time is ticking, and I don’t see where we have many options. Andrew wasn’t lying to Danielle—my house is a fortress, every detail designed to contain a troubled child.

The phones are dead, the electricity out. I have no idea what happened to my cell phone, and my laptop is downstairs in the family room. We’re isolated, and according to Danielle, Andrew has a gun.

He’ll start shooting soon, I know that, and I can’t leave Michael to be his first target. I need him. He may be a pretty suit these days, but Michael grew up hard. He can take a punch and deliver in kind. He might be a match for Andrew, at least more of a match than two women and an eight-year-old boy.

Danielle heads for Evan’s room. I scoot toward the staircase, scissors clenched like a weapon in my fist.

I can’t hear Andrew anymore. No voice booming down the hall. The silence is unnerving. What’s Andrew doing? Where is he hiding? What’s he plotting next?

My hands are trembling. I want to stop, huddle like a small animal caught in the open by a bird of prey.

I won’t do it. My house, my child, my ex-husband. I started this mess. I’ll finish it.

Here’s the home court advantage—I have spent years learning how to navigate these stairs so that I won’t wake Evan in the middle of the night. I know each squeaky step, each groaning floorboard. Unfortunately, my stab wound isn’t doing so well. I’m pretty sure I’m bleeding, and beneath the ache I feel an itchy burn. Infection, most likely. I grit my teeth, picture my family, and push forward.

I hit the bottom step and pause to get my bearings. Daybreak lightens the glass panes beside the door. I can just make out each corner of the foyer, the empty space behind the ficus tree, the yawning archway leading toward the kitchen. No Andrew. I slip away from the stairs, hugging the wall for support, heartbeat quickening.

I hear a groan from the living room. Michael. I want to rush to his side. I force myself to take small, measured steps, listening carefully. The silence terrifies me.

Then I hear rustling from down the hall. Maybe from the downstairs lavette, maybe the front study. I dart into the family room, ducking beside the entertainment center. From here, I can see the sofa. Michael is sprawled on the floor in front of it. His wrists and ankles are bound. His head is moving fitfully, as if he’s struggling to wake from a nightmare.

For one second, I’m tempted to leave him. He’s better off unconscious, not knowing what’s happening to his wife and child, never seeing the bullet coming.

A glow appears in the hallway. Flashlight, coming toward the living room, on course to pass directly by me.