Doug pulled him close. He realized for the first time that his son’s skin was warm, feverish. He pulled himself together, forcing himself to act logically, though the bitter hatred that flowed through his veins rebelled against all rationality. He stood and was about to pick up Billy when he noticed the corner of an envelope protruding from underneath one of the folds of the soiled dress. He reached down and grabbed it, saw his name on the front, tore it open. There were only five words and an exclamation point on the otherwise blank page:

I like your wife too!

“No!” Doug screamed, a loud primal denial directed to no one who could hear.

“No,” Billy repeated. “No. No. No. No. No…”

Doug picked up his son without thinking and with adrenaline strength pushed him up through the opening. He guided the limp body away from the hole, then lifted himself up. His muscles were aching, his tortured insides on fire, but he forced himself to move across the roof. He had to get home to Tritia.

Tritia hung up the phone, palms sweaty, the fear feverishly alive within her. She walked into the kitchen to get herself a glass of water, and it was then that she saw the envelope on the counter next to the microwave. Frowning, she picked it up. She could not remember seeing it on the counter before. She certainly hadn’t checked the mailbox today, and she was pretty sure neither Doug nor Billy had either. She looked at the front of the envelope. It was addressed to her, but there was no return address.

It’s starting again, she thought. And Billy’s missing. But she refused to let herself think that way. She tore open the envelope and pulled out the piece of paper inside.

I’m in the bedroom.

The words jumped out at her, hitting her with the impact of a blunt cudgel. He was back. It hadn’t ended.

He was back and he was after her.

Fumblingly, she opened the top drawer nearest the sink. She drew out a carving knife and gripped it tightly, holding it before her as she walked slowly down the hall toward the bedroom, prepared to lash out at any sign of movement. She knew that it was stupid and foolhardy to try to take on the mailman by herself—she should run to a neighbor’s house, call the police—but he had pushed too far. She had reached her limit and she was damned if she was going to let him terrorize her anymore.

If he was here, she would kill him.

She would slit his fucking throat.

He was not in the bedroom. Knife in front of her, poised to stab, she checked the closet, looked under the bed. Nothing. She poked her head in the bathroom. All clear. She knew he was neither in the kitchen nor in the living room because she had been in both.