Lisa pushed the thought away and got to her feet in the shower, motivated by a surge of remembering the reasons they’d moved: Jeff’s promotion and to have babies. She’d given up her job, a job she loved, to start a family, to realize their dream. That was the plan.

But their move had happened so fast.

Almost as if we were fleeing Ohio.

Jeff had said they were breaking out of a city where snow and slush were a way of life, trading it for palm trees, ocean breezes and their dream. But you’ve got to add sinkholes, alligators and hurricanes, she’d joked right back. Turning off the water, she told herself to get a grip.

Don’t let the creep win.

But he’s out there.

She wiped the fog from the mirror, revealing the face of a frightened woman fighting tears.

I don’t know if I can do this.

Still reeling, Jeff went from room to room assessing the fallout, phone to his ear, on hold with the home-security company.

David Bowie’s Space Oddity played in Jeff’s ear as he looked at the black and gray clouds of fingerprint powder lacing the door handles, walls, counters, tables, appliances. It was everywhere. The intruder had worn gloves, but the investigators said he may have removed them to touch something.

Jeff shook his head at the mess, his stomach churning with rage.

At one point, a crime-scene tech had cautioned, apologetically, that the graphite powder smudged like ink when wet and had advised them to hire professional cleaners. Just another insult to the violation, Jeff thought, while taking inventory once more.

With the exception of Lisa’s phone, which they’d have to repair or replace, nothing appeared to be disturbed. Their tablets, wallets, cash, credit and bank cards seemed to be fine; nothing taken on that front. Lisa would have to inspect her jewelry and her office again after her shower.

In his study, Jeff took stock of the file cabinet holding all their important records like tax returns, contracts, the deed to the house and passports. The contents appeared untouched. Sitting at his desk before his computer, he looked in an unlocked drawer, the one with a false bottom.

He’d had it custom-made.

Underneath the drawer was a hidden spring-release latch, nearly invisible. You had to know where to look to find it—and nobody did. He released it, slid open the top of the secret compartment. Among the items he’d kept there were his data-storage devices, his memory cards and flash drives, some two dozen in all.

His pulse sped up, and he swallowed.