“No.” Ethan stood slightly in front of Emma, shielding her. He clutched tightly to her hand. “Maybe it’s whoever lives there.”

“At three in the morning?” Emma whispered.

“Maybe it’s just someone on a walk,” Ethan suggested. “Or . . .”

Footsteps crunched closer. Twigs snapped. A leaf crackled. Emma squinted across the street, petrified. She heard a slight cough . . . and smelled a faint whiff of coconut sunscreen.

Her hand flew to her mouth. She thought of the elusive figure that had loomed near Ethan and Emma on the tennis courts and on the bench outside the gallery. The squeak of sneakers as someone darted around the corner outside the nurse’s office. All those times she’d felt like someone was watching her. . . .

“Ethan,” Emma said nervously. “I have to get out of here.” She ran across the Mercers’ lawn with Ethan close on her heels. A figure stepped up the ravine, but Emma still couldn’t see who it was. This suddenly felt like a nightmare; all she wanted was to wake up. Her movements felt slow and languid, like she was trying to slosh through mashed potatoes. She lunged across the final few feet of the driveway. Her hand was on the door, turning the knob. Once she was inside, Ethan spoke through the wood. “Lock the door,” he said, his voice shaking.

Emma punched the lock and chained the bolt. Breath shuddered through her chest as she watched Ethan sprint to his car, gun the engine, and take off down the street.

Emma collapsed onto the Mercers’ staircase, clutching her knees to her chest. Someone had been out there. She paced into the den, only slightly comforted by the sight of her friends sleeping, completely unaware of whoever was lurking outside. Emma’s eyes flickered across the room, taking in the objects that’d become so familiar—the porcelain cactus, the framed photo of Sutton and Laurel at the Grand Canyon, the ikat-print ashtray that sat on the coffee table, even though no one in the family smoked.

A shadow moved across the porch light and cast an outline against the drawn blinds. Emma froze. This couldn’t be happening. She pressed her body flat against Sutton’s navy-and-white striped sleeping bag. She’d locked the front door, but what about the rest of the house?

Emma lay still, listening to the sounds of her friends breathing, counting their inhales and exhales. Moments turned into minutes. She scrunched her toes against an itchy wool throw blanket and counted to one hundred before jumping up, hopping over Laurel and Charlotte, and padding back into the hallway. The marble was cold against her bare feet as she crept up the steps. She needed to lock the window in Sutton’s room—the one that was so easily accessible by the oak tree outside. She might not be able to reach the lowest branch from the ground, but anyone over six feet could.