I disconnect, and the silence presses down on me. Outside the kitchen window, birdsong is slowly giving way to the night sounds of crickets and frogs. An edgy energy runs like mercury through my veins. But impatience and a lowgrade anxiety dog me. I’ve never been good at waiting, but I have a feeling I’ll be doing plenty in the next few days. It’s going to be hard because in the back of my mind, I know there’s a high probability my plan will fail. The killer won’t show.

That he’ll kill again . . .

A glance at my watch tells me the newspaper has been in circulation for almost three hours now. I wonder if the killer has read the story. I wonder if he’ll take the bait. If he’ll review the video and identify the face in the window. If he’ll come here to silence the only living witness . . .

It’s not easy getting into the mind of a psychopath; they don’t think the same way the rest of us do. I envision this going down any number of ways. The killer waits until nightfall. He’s armed and wears a mask, does a quick and violent home invasion with plans to kill the boy in his bed. Another scenario is that the killer will use a stealthier plan. Wait until dark. Sneak in. Take the boy from his bed. And either kill him there or make it look like an accident. A fall from the loft in the barn would do the trick.

More than likely the killer will scope out the place first. Tonight, it’s my goal to let him know the Zook family is home, totally unaware. They are vulnerable to attack. Come get us. . . .

Tomasetti has been on the periphery of my mind since he left. I’m not sure why I’ve put off calling him. Maybe because I know he’s got enough on his plate at the moment. Or maybe a part of me fears he’ll find fault with my plan, and I know that no matter what he says, I won’t scrub it. Still, I want to talk to him. I want to hear his voice. I want him to make me laugh. The vehemence of those feelings scares me a little. One of many hazards of a relationship.

Pulling out my phone, I dial his number from memory. He answers with his usual growl of his last name.

“It’s Kate.”

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist calling me much longer.” His words are easy, but something in his voice puts me on alert. Some subtle note I can’t quite identify.

“I wanted to fill you in on something I’ve got going on here,” I begin.

“You catch a break?”

“Not exactly.” I lay out the plan.

A charged pause ensues. “You’ve been busy.”

“Things happened fast.”