Up close, she looked quite different from Katie Darcy, her features more refined, a little older. Marge told Bonnie to take her baby, and Marge handed Heather over to Sutton. The child opened her eyes, looked at the patrolman, then slumped on his shoulder and went back to sleep. The baby continued sleeping in her mother’s arms.

Marge said, “Ramirez, you, Benko, and I will cover the others until everyone’s out of the house and into the car. Suspect may be watching, and we don’t want any shots fired while we’ve got the kids in our hands.”

“Got it,” Ramirez said.

“Move with caution,” Marge reiterated. “Apprehending the suspect isn’t as important as the kids.” She turned to Bonnie and said, “Don’t try anything stupid with the baby in your arms, Bonnie. You’re in enough trouble as is.”

Bonnie didn’t answer, but the frightened look in her eyes told Marge that she’d cooperate. Ramirez went first through the hallway, covered it from the front end. Marge and Benko stood at the threshold of the kids’ room and covered the passageway from the back.

As soon as the children were out of the hallway, they were quickly escorted out of the house and into waiting patrol cars. Sighing with relief when the children were out of the way, Marge figured out her next move.

Miller hadn’t been caught leaving the house. He must be hiding somewhere inside the dwelling.

Hiding somewhere.

Anywhere.

With a gun.

Marge told Benko to check the other rooms off the hallway, Ramirez to take the living and dining room, she’d take the kitchen and service porch.

The kitchen was compact, crowded. The countertops done in some sort of cheap terra-cotta tile, the grout cracked and grimy. An unopened jar of peanut butter, a dirty knife, and a trail of crumbs decorated the left side of the counter; the right side held three empty beer bottles. The sink was filled with dishes sitting in six inches of milky water. Above the sink was a greenhouse window, its shelves holding a half-dozen wilting plants. Behind her were the oven, the microwave, and the cooktop. Marge opened all the cabinets, the door to a walk-in pantry, and—just to be sure—the oven door.

Empty.

She went on to the laundry room right off of the kitchen. The washer and dryer were empty. She stood to the side and opened the broom closet.

Nothing.

But only for a moment.

In the abstract, she saw it all, the iron arcing down on her head. But it happened so fast, all she could do was ward off some of the impact and swear. She felt its weight crash into her forehead several times, felt herself go dizzy. A gush of blood streamed into her eyes.