He’d planned for this, planned to keep her alive in case he needed her password. He had precut lengths of duct tape fixed to his jeans and his silenced pistol in his gloved hand.

A bandana obscured his face, except for his eyes. One of Smythe’s ball caps covered his newly bald head. He wasn’t giving the cops any more photos of him. The carpeted floor quieted the sound of his footsteps as he approached.

Miss Stephanie cried out once when he put the barrel of his gun to her temple, but he stifled what would have been a scream by slapping one of the pieces of tape over her mouth.

“Get up,” he said quietly.

She looked over her shoulder, eyes wide and petrified. She didn’t move, frozen in place. She was young, maybe in her midtwenties, with strawberry blond hair piled atop her head.

With his left hand, he took her laptop from her, placing it on the cushion at the end of the sofa. “Stand up. I don’t want to hurt you,” he lied. “Do what I say and I won’t.”

She finally obeyed, her body shaking like a leaf, her pleas muffled by the tape. Stowing his gun under one arm, he quickly taped her wrists behind her back, then pushed her to sit and restrained her feet.

He took a seat at the end of the sofa, gun in hand once again. Her laptop was new and shiny and weighed next to nothing as he rested it on his knees and opened her hard drive.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her start to wiggle, like she was planning an escape.

Sorry, sweetheart. It wasn’t her fault, of course. She was simply a teacher to the wrong kid. That wasn’t going to stop him from using her to get what he needed, though.

What he needed was access to Kowalski’s weapons stash, so what he needed was Kowalski’s—Excuse me, Anthony Ward’s—home address.

He pointed his gun at her face. “Don’t even think about it.”

She sagged, tears running down her cheeks and over the duct tape.

He typed roster into the laptop’s search box, but got nothing. Student yielded too much, but information gave him the file that he needed.

“Ward, Ward, Ward,” he muttered to himself. Anthony Ward Jr. was at the bottom.

Parents: Anthony (real estate developer) and Angelina (homemaker).

Allergies: None known.

Health concerns: None known.

Favorite color: Green.

Pets: Rottweiler named Lucky.

Well, that was particularly useful information. He needed to be prepared to drug the dog when he got there. Just in case.

And, finally, the pièce de résistance: Anthony Jr.’s home phone number and address.

DJ laughed, genuinely amused. “You can’t make this shit up.” He glanced at Miss Stephanie. “They live in Granite Bay, less than five miles from where I’ve been staying.”

He took a photo of her screen with his phone, then closed the document and set the computer aside. Her nostrils flared as she watched him stand, hope flickering in her eyes.