He took a deep breath, let it out. Cold enough for snow. It might snow tonight, and definitely tomorrow, according to the forecast. A major storm coming in quickly. Snow would make it easier for the cops to track him.

Maybe there was a logical reason that the wife and kids were gone, not because Maddox was suspicious. Because they could not know whom he intended to kill. They. Could. Not.

He should have grabbed Maddox earlier tonight as he went into the house. Hit the female cop over the head, drugged Maddox. Or, maybe he could find a way to lure the female cop outside, zap her with the Taser, then go in and get Maddox.

Too risky. If Maddox heard anything, he’d have his gun out.

Glen didn’t want to die.

Tomorrow morning. That was the only real option now, he was sure. When Maddox came out to warm up the car, zap.

Waste no time. Kill him right there. Stab him in the gut and slice him all the way through.

Fast. He had to do it fast before the female cop came out.

Simple. Effective. Dead.

He closed his eyes. Rage would not serve him well, and he felt it creeping in, eating at his gut. He had survived so long doing what had to be done because he learned to control his actions. He learned patience and self-denial. He learned that he couldn’t act without thinking through every possible outcome, planning for every contingency.

He learned the hard way, fifteen years ago. When he finally had the courage to confront his father...

Glen walked up the weed-strewn path of the house he’d grown up in, pulling his jacket tight around his body. It was so cold he felt he’d never be warm again.

A For Sale sign was on the lawn. No way would he allow his father to sell this house. It would not happen! He couldn’t let it happen...

He knocked on the door.

No answer.

He pounded.

No answer.

He tried the knob. It was locked.

Anxiety bordering on panic, he ran around to the back door and tried it. Locked. He twisted and shook the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. “Zachary!” he shouted. “Let me in!”

He wasn’t afraid of his weak, drunk father. He came here to do what he should have done years ago. Maybe if he’d had the courage to kill his old man when he was thirteen, his mother would never have been out in the car that night in the storm. She would never have died and left him.

Glen broke the window of the back door, reached in and unlocked the dead bolt. Then he entered his family home and stopped in the middle of the kitchen.

It was empty.

There was nothing inside. No kitchen table with the red-checked vinyl tablecloth.

No whimsical plates of kittens and puppies over the threshold to the dining room.

No food, no dishes, no curtains.

Slowly, he walked from room to room, his knife twisting in his hand. It wasn’t a large house; it didn’t take long to realize there was nothing here. Not one piece of furniture. Not one family photo. Everything had been stolen.