She slipped on her housecoat and crept out of her room and into the second-floor hallway.

There was no one there. No lights on.

She passed the open door to the studio. It was dark in there, save for some moonlight coming through the skylights. For a second she thought she saw a pinprick of light, no larger than the top of a pen, but when she blinked it was gone.

From the top of the stairs, she could see down to the entryway.

The front door was wide open.

Jesus Christ, someone is in the house.

A chill ran the length of Annie’s spine. She was certain she’d locked the front door before she and Charlie went to bed. Yes, she was in the country now and security wasn’t as big a concern, but old habits die hard. So how did someone get in?

Then it hit her.

Wasn’t it possible, even after all these years, that Dolores had a key to the house? She’d cleaned for whoever had lived here years ago.

Crazy Dolores is here.

Okay, that was a bit harsh, Annie knew. The woman was suffering from some form of dementia that she couldn’t help. But that didn’t mean Annie felt any better about having her in the house.

She went to Charlie’s room, found the door already open. The moonlight that was coming through the skylight was filtering through other windows, so rather than flip on a switch and startle him, Annie went right to his bed to wake him.

The covers were turned back. The bed was empty.

Annie tamped down an overwhelming sense of panic. Time for a change of strategy. No more pussyfooting about. She ran from the room, flipped on the hallway lights, and shouted: “Charlie! Charlie!”

No answer.

That didn’t have to mean he wasn’t in the house. She thought back to the sleepwalking episodes after John had died, how a brass band wouldn’t have brought Charlie back to the real world. She’d already poked her head into the studio and found it empty, so she checked the bathroom, and when he wasn’t there she ran down the stairs, flipping every light on along the way.

That open door did not bode well, and with Charlie missing, several possibilities presented themselves. Charlie had opened it and left on his own, either awake or in a dream state. A stranger had entered the house and Charlie was in hiding. Or someone had entered the house . . . and left with Charlie.

Annie ran through the open doorway and onto the porch, where the light was already on. There, at the foot of the porch steps, was Charlie’s bicycle. The thought had crossed her mind that if he could sleepwalk, he might also be able to sleep-cycle. But seeing the bike didn’t do much to put her mind at ease.

Again, she shouted: “Charlie!”

Nothing.