“Seven years of bad luck,” she whispered, just as Nana Nichols had foretold when she’d broken her grandmother’s favorite looking glass at the age of three. “You’ll be cursed until you’re ten, Jenny, and who knows how much longer after that!” Nana, usually kind, had looked like a monster, all yellow teeth and bloodless lips twisted in disgust.

But how right the old woman had been. Bad luck seemed to follow her around, even to this day.

Spying her face, now distorted and cleaved in the shards of glass that remained, Jennifer saw herself as an old woman—a lonely old woman.

God, what a day, she thought thickly.

Heading for the broom and dustpan, she started downstairs, nearly stumbling on the landing. She caught herself, made her way to the first floor, and stepped into the laundry room.

Where the door stood ajar.

What?

She hadn’t left it open; she was sure of it. And when her lover had left, he’d gone through the garage. So…? Had Kristi, on her way to school, not pulled it shut? The damned thing was hard to latch, but…

She felt a frisson of fear skitter down her spine. Hadn’t she heard someone down here earlier? Or was that just the gin talking? She was a little confused, her head thick, but…

Steadying herself on the counter, she paused, straining to hear, trying to remember. Good God, she was more than a little out of it. She walked into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and noticed the hint of cigarette smoke in the air. No doubt from her ex-husband. How many times did she have to tell him to take his foul habit and smoke outside? Way outside. Not just out on the back porch, where the damned tobacco odor wafted through the screen door.

But Rick hasn’t been here in two days…

She froze, her gaze traveling upward to the ceiling. Nothing…and then…a floorboard creaked overhead. The crunch of glass.

Oh, God, no.

This time it wasn’t a guess.

This time she was certain.

Someone was in the house.

Someone who didn’t want her to know he was there.

Someone who wanted to do her harm.

The smell of cigarette smoke teased at her nostrils again.

Oh, Jesus. This wasn’t Rick.

She slid on silent footsteps toward the counter where the knives were kept and slowly slid a long-bladed weapon from its slot. As she did, she thought of all the cases Rick had solved, of all the criminals who had channeled their wrath toward him and his family when they’d been arrested or sentenced. Many of them had vowed to get back at Detective Bentz in the most painful ways possible.

He’d never told her of the threats, but she’d learned from other cops on the force who had gladly repeated various criminals’ promises to seek revenge.