He dashes into the kitchen, and I crane my neck just in time to see him pulling a knife from the knife block. He’s searching for the biggest knife he can find, which turns out to be some sort of carving knife that looks about eight inches long. It glints in the overhead light of the kitchen, and it looks pretty frightening from here. Then again, we don’t know what the intruder is packing. If the intruder has a gun, the knife won’t do us much good.

He told me not to move, but there’s no way I’m sitting here on the couch while my husband possibly is shot to death. I tear my feet out of the bowl of warm water and sprint after him, leaving a trail of puddles behind me.

Ethan reaches the door to the office a second before I do. His eyes bulge at whatever he sees in the room, and his fingers whiten on the handle of the knife. “Freeze,” I hear him say. “Hands up!”

I stare into the office over his shoulder. Even though I expected it on some level, I’m shocked to see a man standing in the middle of the room, his trembling hands raised in the air. He has scraggly dark hair, badly in need of a haircut, and several weeks’ growth of a beard on his face. He’s wearing a pair of worn blue jeans and a sweatshirt with a hole in the sleeve. He sort of looks like a bum, except he’s wearing eyeglasses, which seem oddly out of place.

“Who are you?” Ethan hisses.

“I…” The man’s voice cracks like he hasn’t spoken in a long time. “I…”

“Who are you?”

“I just needed a place to stay for the night,” he says in a gruff voice. “I don’t have a place to live, and I… I didn’t know anyone would be here.”

Ethan and the stranger regard each other with wary expressions on their faces. But I feel better. It’s what I had suspected. A drifter is squatting in the house because he thought it was empty. And he doesn’t seem to be armed or drunk or crazed. And while he’s taller than Ethan, he doesn’t seem particularly muscular or scary—he’s stick-thin, like he hasn’t had a decent meal in years.

But there’s something about his voice. Something strangely familiar.

“I’m sorry.” The man clears some nasty-sounding phlegm from his throat. “It was real cold out so I… Anyway, I’m sorry I busted in here. I… I’ll go.”

For a moment, I feel a surge of sympathy. It can’t be easy to be homeless in the middle of winter. Part of me wants to insist that he stay instead of casting him out into the cold. But another part of me feels like there’s something fishy about his story.