As she remained frozen in place, staring, the old woman noticed her. The woman stepped towards the window, limping. Only inches between their faces now, separated by glass, the old woman’s eyes wild and piercing. Her mouth moved, and Sara heard her voice, weak and wavering, but she could not discern her words.

The old woman formed her right hand into a fist and hammered on the windowpane, wrenching Sara from her paralysis. Sara stepped back, retreating from the woman’s stare. The woman pounded on the glass once more.

Help her, Sara thought. For God’s sake, help her.

Finally, she moved, went to the hall and the front door. She pulled the lever handle, but it remained solidly in place. Locked, she remembered, and she ran back to the kitchen, to the bowl on the island, and grabbed the keys. Returning to the hall, she unlocked the door and opened it. The old woman was already there, pushing, pushing, stronger than Sara could have imagined, her voice rising as she forced her way inside, past Sara and into the hall. A trail of bloody footprints followed her. The insane idea to get the mop from the kitchen and clean the floor flashed in Sara’s mind.

The woman turned in a circle, her burning gaze moving from floor to wall to doorway to Sara, her voice a panicked shriek.

“Who are you?” the woman asked. “Why are you in my house?”

Sara backed against the wall, her hands up and out, as if to defend herself. “I live here,” she said. “We just moved—”

“Get out!” The woman bent double with the force of her own voice. “Get out of my house!”

Sara shook her head. “I don’t—”

“Where are the children? What did you do with the children?”

Damien appeared on the stairs, eyes puffy, hair tousled, fastening the belt on his jeans, still wearing the T-shirt he’d slept in. The woman heard his footsteps, turned to stare up at him.

“What are you doing in my house?” she shouted at him.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said. He paused for a moment, then rushed down the remaining stairs.

“Damien,” Sara said, “what’s going—”

Before she could finish the question, the woman turned back to her.

“Get out of my house! Get—”

She fell to the floor like a bundle of twigs. While Sara remained against the wall, her back pressed to it, Damien rushed to the old woman, crouched down beside her. The woman cowered on the stone floor, her hands up to shield herself.

“You’re all right, love, let’s get you back.” He turned to speak to Sara. “Grab my car key from the kitchen.”

Sara didn’t move. “We need to call the police.”

“No police,” he said, his voice hardening. “I’ll take her back. Just get the key, will you?”

“Take her back where? She’s bleeding. She needs a hospital. We should call—”