The hair prickled on my arms and my pulse sky-rocketed. My mouth went dry and a wave of dizziness sent me staggering against the house. Terror engulfed me. Without even thinking about it, I turned and lurched back to my car, piled in, and locked the doors. I sat there, gasping for breath, chest aching. Snapping my rubber band didn’t help. I couldn’t get enough air. I grabbed the little wastebasket I kept on the passenger-side floor and threw up. Then I clawed at my shirt collar, trying to loosen it.

I must’ve passed out. I came to sprawled awkwardly to the side, clumps of hair sticking to my sweaty face. I sat up, dazed and sick, and did what I always did after an attack — looked around to see who’d witnessed it. In this case, no one. A small favor.

I thought briefly of just going back and knocking on the door like a normal person, but even considering it set my heart racing. I profoundly did not want to get out of the car. I couldn’t shake the sense that if I got out, something terrible would happen.

I started the car up and headed home. It was either that or have back-to-back attacks. My hands trembled on the steering wheel the whole way. Just thinking about Justine and Ben’s place sent my pulse up. I tried to put it out of my mind and focus on my driving.

By the time I parked and got inside my house, the adrenaline rush was fading. It left me exhausted.

I should call Justine.

That thought made the panic begin to rise.

The phone’s all the way upstairs, I told myself, and I’ll have to look up the number. I never called Ben at home, anymore, and didn’t remember it. I’ll call her later, I thought. Tomorrow was soon enough, especially after she’d been so rude.

Besides, I had stuff to do. I needed to clean up the basement and make some dinner. Then I’d read a little and go to bed early — tomorrow was a workday. I tried to push the memory of Ben’s house and the attack into the background.

After getting a drink of water, I headed down to the basement to neaten up. I’d left my desk a mess the night before, when I’d freaked out about the monster-foot trick. Looked like I’d even left the lights on.

I was most of the way down the stairs when I looked up and saw a man standing at my desk, going through a sheaf of prints. I froze, not really processing what I was seeing.

After what seemed like ages, he looked up at me. He didn’t look at all like a burglar caught in the act — there was nothing surreptitious or guilty in his manner. He just stared at me, then set the prints down on the desk.