Peach had never owned a gun. She had never even held a gun in her hand, but she wished she had one now. Or she wished Annalie was with her, pointing her own gun at the open door.

She approached slowly. The door was broken just above the door knob. The frame was splintered, and the strike plate had been torn off. Someone had kicked their way into the house. Gusts of wind carried rain across the tiled foyer. She peered inside, but all she could see was a silver sheen reflecting on the floor. She reached around the door frame to flip the light switch, but the power was off.

Peach took two steps into the foyer. In the living room on her left, she could distinguish the stark white shape of Sexpot Mannequin, who was where she’d left her, in lingerie, strong arm cocked behind her head. Nothing looked disturbed. The timbers of the house shook. With the noise of the storm muffled, she listened again. She didn’t think anyone was here, but the Mercedes was parked in the driveway. Her anxiety soared.

She called: ‘Deacon!’

Her brother didn’t answer.

She tiptoed toward his bedroom. The rainwater followed her, moving like a snake. The air was stale and still. She retrieved a tiny pen light on her keychain and cast a weak beam in front of her. She sweated under her wet clothes. Her hand trembled. The fluttering light illuminated the open door of Deacon’s bedroom, and she saw something smeared across the wood. Getting closer, she touched it, and her finger came away sticky and red.

Blood.

‘Oh, no,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, no, no, no, no.’

The flashlight lit up the bedroom. She moved it around to the bed, to the floor, to the bathroom. The room was empty, but she saw evidence of a fight. The sheets had been torn off the bed, and she saw more blood on the white mattress. She clasped both hands over her head in frustration and pulled at her hair. She bit her lip so hard that it split between her teeth.

She took her phone and dialed Deacon’s number. There was no answer.

She dialed again. And again. Each time, she heard the call go to voicemail.

Peach ran from the house, leaving the broken door open behind her. She blinked, barely able to see through rain and tears. She held up her arms against the wind in her face, as if she could keep the gusts from blowing her away. Tree branches snapped and fell around her. She stumbled forward into the street, which was swollen with two inches of water, nearly knocking her off her feet.

She fought to the park and clambered inside her car. Her face was streaked with dirt. She was spattered with mud.

What to do, what to do, what to do.