“What’s going on?” Jessica demanded as John grabbed his car keys from the dresser. “What am I supposed to do if Not-Charlie shows up? You saw what she did to Aunt Jen; she was probably the one who got Clay. And now she’s gonna be after Charlie, too, our Charlie.” John stopped, rubbing his temples with one hand.

“Don’t let her in,” he said finally. “Bolt the door after me, push the couch across the door. I’ll be back.”

“John!”

He left. He waited on the stoop until he heard the deadbolt fall into place, then hurried to his car.

*  *  *

John pulled into Clay Burke’s driveway too fast, slamming on the breaks and skidding onto the lawn. He rang the doorbell and waited long enough to confirm that no one was there, tried the knob and found it locked, then tried to act casual as he strolled around to the back of the house. He didn’t think the neighbors could see through the hedges separating the houses, but there was no reason not to be careful. The back door off the kitchen was closed as well, so he made his way along the outside wall, looking for a window that would open. The living room was where he found it: the window was unlocked, and after a few minutes of fiddling, he was able to get the screen up, then haul himself over the sill, scraping his back against the window frame as he squeezed through.

He landed in a crouch, and stayed there for a moment, listening. The house had a thick hush, and a closed-up, stale smell; Carlton must have slept at the hospital. John got up and went to Clay’s study, not bothering to be quiet.

He balked when he saw the wreckage: he hadn’t forgotten the scene: the door smashed, the furniture upturned, and papers scattered over the floor like carpeting, but it was still a shock to see it. There was also a dark stain on the floor where he’d found Clay lying. John stepped over it carefully and went into the office.

He scanned the room quickly: only one corner remained undisturbed: Ella was standing there almost concealed behind a standing lamp, her tea tray steady in front of her.