On to the next door. When she turned on the lights this time, she saw a hump under the covers on a double mattress atop bare box springs. Marge looked at Benko, then walked over to the covers and pulled them back. The woman was huddled in a fetal position, wearing a pink shortie nightgown. Her dark hair was tied up, her skin riddled with goose bumps. Marge recognized her as Bonnie Duralt, the same woman she’d pulled the Pampers scam on.

Marge said, “Where is he, Mrs. Duralt?”

She answered, “He’s not here.”

“Where’d he go?” Marge fired back.

“I don’t know.”

“C’mon, lady, do better than that!” Benko yelled at her.

“I swear it!” Bonnie pleaded. “He just said, ‘I gotta get out of here, Bonnie.’”

Marge felt her stomach churn. “He have a weapon on him?”

For the first time, Bonnie looked up. “You’re the Pampers lady!”

“Well, now I’m a police detective, so answer my questions!” Marge ordered. “Does your husband have a gun, Bonnie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Cut the bullshit, Bonnie,” Marge said. “Now, try again. Does your husband have a gun?”

Bonnie was shivering now. “He keeps one under the pillow.”

Benko’s hand went under the pillow. “It’s not here.”

Bonnie squeezed herself into a tighter ball, tears streaming down her cheeks. Two uniforms came into the bedroom—one was a Hispanic named Ramirez, the other a blond named Sutton.

Marge asked them, “Somebody guarding all the doors?”

“Yessir, ma’am, Detective,” answered Sutton.

“Then the suspect has to be somewhere in the house. Consider him armed and dangerous.” Marge focused in on Bonnie. “Get up, Bonnie. We’re going to go get the girls.”

“The baby’s mine!” she cried out.

“I know,” Marge said. “But we need the kids and you out of here—safe.”

Bonnie blurted out, “It’s his little girl, ya know.”

“Not no more, lady,” Benko snapped. He hoisted Bonnie up by her arm. “Let’s go.”

Marge gave him a “Cool the rough stuff” look, and followed Bonnie to the girls’ room. It had been done in blocks-and-teddy-bear wallpaper—a homemade job, since the seams weren’t aligned. The windows were draped with pink gingham curtains. Against the wall were two cribs, between them a white nightstand with a Humpty-Dumpty night-light. Marge peered inside the cribs. The children were sleeping undisturbed. At least Miller had the good sense to keep them out of it—for the time being. The baby was on her stomach, nose squashed against the crib’s mattress. Heather was on her back, her face red with sleep, soft wisps of hair framing her face.