Slowly I walk up the street, swiveling my head from left to right. A fuzzy blue light shines through the front window of one house—someone is up late watching TV. Up ahead, Gene and Tony’s house blazes in the night, and from this angle I can’t see Ethan’s house. The other houses are dark. Across the street looms a monstrous pile of wooden framing wrapped in Tyvek, a new mansion that’s far too big for its narrow lot. From at least a block away I hear the distant bark of a dog, along with the muted sounds of traffic on Roswell. Otherwise, the street is as silent as a tomb.

I’m two lots down from Ethan’s driveway when the back of my neck prickles and I casually step off the street and into someone’s front yard where I’m at least partially hidden by a squat Japanese maple. It’s a sensation I tend to trust—I’m being watched. No cars are passing; I see no one on the street in either direction. Maybe a nosy neighbor is peeking out a window and moved a blind to see better.

Then the house under construction draws my eye again. It’s catty-corner across from Ethan’s house, and the upstairs windows would have a perfect view of Ethan’s driveway, maybe even his front yard. I squint and peer into the darkness. Nothing is moving in the windows. But that prickling doesn’t go away.

I cross the street and slowly make my way up to the construction site, trying to keep hidden as much as possible behind garbage cans and trees. My eyes are glued to the front of the house. No movement, nothing. The driveway to the house, a trail of concrete gleaming in the night, leads around the back. I hurry down it, hoping no lights flash on and pin me to the wall like a prison searchlight.

The backyard is muddy and strewn with debris, and there is what looks like the beginnings of a back porch that’s framed and roofed but has no walls, only clear plastic sheeting. I slip between two of the sheets onto the porch. The air is still and hot and cloying. Before me is a framed open doorway in the back wall of the house where the builder clearly intends to put in a set of double doors. I step through the gaping hole into the house, all senses tingling now. The light, already dim, grows dimmer. Inside the air is dusty and dry as an oven, and I breathe slowly through my open mouth to minimize the chance that I’ll sneeze. Almost as an afterthought I unholster my five-shot revolver and hold it low in a two-handed grip.