As I approached the back door, I noticed that the window next to it—which also led into the kitchen—stood wide open. Had Blake gone in through the window instead of the door?

Unlikely.

My scalp started to tingle with anxiety, and the feeling spread down my back. I took two steps forward, moving closer to the open window. I stopped and listened but heard nothing.

“Blake?”

I kept my voice low, although that neighborhood, early in the morning, with everyone off to work or school, might as well have been the set of a postapocalyptic movie. The cop at the front of the house might have grown bored and sped off with his siren going just to try to break the monotony.

“Blake?”

I went closer to the window and bent down, trying to see inside. It was dark. I saw the outline of the kitchen table, a microwave, and a dirty dish on a counter next to a coffeemaker. I listened, thought I heard movement.

I was about to back away, to cut my losses and move on, when a face appeared in the opening. I jumped back so fast I almost fell over in the grass. And my heart skipped a couple of beats, like a scratched record.

The man, who looked to be my age, remained in place, staring out at me, his face set hard and his eyes burning.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked. “Why are you sneaking around here?”

His close-cropped hair was thinning on the top, and he wore a suit coat over a black polo shirt. His hands rested on the windowsill, the nail of his right index finger blackened by some injury. He stared out at me, his face framed by the window, and he looked like someone about to present the angriest children’s puppet show ever performed.

“Who are you?” I asked.

The man studied me without answering. He looked me up and down, and some kind of recognition spread across his face. When his scrutiny had reached some point I didn’t understand, the man nodded to himself and retracted his head. Then I heard the door’s lock undone, and he pulled it open. He stood there, staring at me again, only this time he nodded, confirming whatever he’d been working through when his face was in the window.

“The Juniper Pig,” he said, his anger cooling by a few degrees.

“What about it?”

“You own it. I’ve seen you doing those spots on Facebook.”

“Right. That’s me. And who are you? And why are you in this house? Why did you break in to this house?”

The man stood there, blinking. I thought the sun was in his eyes. Or else he had allergies.

But then I saw the tears forming just before he raised his hand and brushed them away.

He said something I didn’t understand, the words muffled by his hand.

“You what?” I asked.