That motion jogged me out of my paralysis. I turned and ran back up the stairs, trying to remember where I’d set down my keys.

I’d only made it a few steps when my left foot was jerked out from under me and I fell, banging my forehead on a step hard enough to make me dizzy. I lay there, feeling confused and tangled up in my own limbs.

As though from a distance, I felt the man step over me and heard him close the door at the top of the stairs. Then he dragged me back down the steps and over to the desk. He leaned me up against the wall. I promptly slid over onto my side, feeling sick. He went back to what he was doing — looking through stacks of prints. I closed my eyes for a while and just listened to the slippery rustle of photographic paper.

Slowly, the spins and nausea receded. I collected my thoughts a little. It occurred to me that he was probably going to kill me. I’d gotten a good look at him. I’d be able to ID him in a line-up.

My head ached fiercely. It was like I could actually hear it hurting. I thought about pretending to be unconscious, but that didn’t seem useful. If he was for sure going to kill me, he’d do it whether I was awake or not. If I talked to him, maybe I could help myself.

I opened my eyes. The man had moved on to the images on my hard drive. He was scrolling through them, studying each one carefully. All my prints were out on the desk in piles.

Something about him nagged at my brain. It took me a minute, but then I realized he had a thick, lumpy scar on his left wrist. And a blue sweatshirt. And jeans.

I stared at him. He was a white guy and had brown hair, but otherwise he looked nothing like the man who’d been with Callie in the restaurant. Whereas that man had been bland enough to fade into a white wall, this guy was anything but. Instead of neat and conservative, his hair looked shaggy and none too clean. His features were severe. He looked a lot bigger, and he was the opposite of unnoticeable. “Dangerous” just roiled off him. If this guy had walked into Pete’s Eats, Pete would’ve reached for his shotgun.

And yet, the scar looked just the same. And the clothes were so similar. Was it the same shirt, or just one very like it? His sleeves were pushed up, so it was hard to be sure. But did it matter? Two men could dress the same, but they wouldn’t have the same scar. This must be the same person — a master of disguise, or something.

My god, had “Moral Crusader Callie” gotten herself involved with terrorists?