Followed
Author: Mark Lukens
Date: 2018-01-08 00:00:00+00:00
Description: What if a stalker followed you home? After a dinner out with friends, psychologist Phil Stanton and his wife Cathy are followed home by a pickup truck. Phil thought he lost their pursuer on the way home, but when he pulls up to his house the truck is right behind them again. The truck leaves as Phil calls the police, but the stalker knows where they live now. Over the next few days the terror escalates: Phil treats a mysterious patient with violent tendencies who issues a warning; Phil is haunted by nightmares, and Cathy hears him murmuring strange things and a woman's name in his sleep; and C

Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

FOLLOWED

A Suspense Thriller by

MARK LUKENS

Followed—copyright © 2013—Mark Lukens

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reprinted without written permission from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by: Valdas Miskinis

Special thanks to: Ann, Conny, Kelli, Mary Ann, Linda, and April

OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR:

Ancient Enemy – www.amazon.com/dp/B00FD4SP8M

Darkwind: Ancient Enemy 2 – www.amazon.com/dp/B01K42JBGW

Sightings – www.amazon.com/dp/B00VAI31KW

Devil’s Island – www.amazon.com/dp/B06WWJC6VD

What Lies Below – www.amazon.com/dp/B0143LADEY

Descendants of Magic – www.amazon.com/dp/B00FWYYYYC

The Summoning – www.amazon.com/dp/B00HNEOHKU

Night Terrors – www.amazon.com/dp/B00M66IU3U

The Exorcist’s Apprentice – www.amazon.com/dp/B00YYF1E5C

The Darwin Effect – www.amazon.com/dp/B01G4A8ZYC

A Dark Collection: 12 Scary Stories – www.amazon.com/dp/B00JENAGLC

Ghost Town: a novella – www.amazon.com/dp/B00LEZRF7G

Razorblade Dreams: Horror Stories – www.amazon.com/dp/B076B7W252

PROLOGUE

Portland, OR

Travis felt like he’d been followed. He couldn’t see anyone down the dark and deserted streets as he parked his car in front of the two story house, but he felt like he was being watched. He got out of his car and rushed up the walkway to the front door. It was late—two o’clock in the morning—and he hadn’t seen any cars following him here, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that the man had finally found him.

He had to get out of town for a while, that was all there was to it. He needed to get inside and pack a bag; he needed all of his identification, any cash he had, a few changes of clothes. One bag, just enough to carry onto the airplane. He’d have his parents send him some money whenever he got to where he was going.

God, he didn’t even know where he was going yet. But it didn’t matter—he just needed to get away from here. He would have time to look at some destinations once he got to the airport. He’d go somewhere far away. Somewhere warm. Maybe New Orleans or Miami. Somewhere out of the country. Maybe Mexico. Yeah, he could see himself on a nice warm Mexican beach with an icy drink in his hand.

Travis had his keys in his hand with the key to the front door poking out, trying his best not to jingle them in the eerily silent night. He was pretty sure his stalker, whoever the guy was, didn’t know about this place that he’d just rented a month ago under a different name. But then again, maybe he did. The man seemed to know everything else about Travis’ life, everything from his past. The man had stalked him, threatened him, and it was getting a little too scary now. It was time to swallow his pride and run away.

Travis unlocked the front door of the house, opened it, and darted inside. He closed the door and locked it, exhaling a long breath of relief now that he was inside. He felt safer now. Well, a little safer anyway. He’d feel much better when he was on the airplane.

He stood there for a moment by the front door, listening. Everything was quiet—the only sounds were the gurgling of the fridge in the kitchen and the soft purring of the heat drifting out of the vents in the ceiling. The place was a mess. He’d only been staying here on and off for the last month—ever since that man had begun following him.

Well, all this shit was going to be over soon. His parents had the cops involved now (even though the cops said that there really wasn’t much they could do about it until the man actually did something), and now they had hired a private detective. Between the cops and the private detective, Travis was sure that they would find out who this guy really was, what his warped plans were.

Travis didn’t turn on any lights in the living room—he didn’t want the lights to be seen from the street. He made his way through the darkness, his skin alive with an electrical tingling of fear, his mind buzzing with panic that made him both light-headed and hyperaware of everything. He got to the kitchen and slapped at the light switch.

Too bright—he turned it back off.

He hurried to the stove and turned on the small light underneath the range hood.

He stood still for another moment, listening.

Everything was quiet.

“He isn’t here,” he whispered to himself. “No way he could have found this place.”

Travis had been too careful. He had even rented the car he’d driven here, and he would leave that car at the airport parking lot. His tracks would be covered. That creepy guy who’d been following him wasn’t going to find him.

The glow from over the stove provided enough light for him to see the stairs. He ran up the carpeted steps to the second floor. He rushed down the hallway and entered the master bedroom, flipping on the overhead light on his way in. He turned on the bathroom light. It was a little warm in here because he’d left the heat on for the last few days, and now he was beginning to sweat a little.

Just get this done.

He grabbed a duffel bag from the closet and then grabbed a smaller travel bag for some bathroom stuff. He brought the bags to the end of the bed and set them there.

And then he froze.

Was that a sound from out in the hallway?

Travis crept to the bedroom door. He wished he had some kind of weapon with him. He didn’t own a gun, but he wished he had something with him, a baseball bat or a golf club maybe; he would feel so much better with something in his hands right now to defend himself with.

He peeked out at the hallway and looked over at the stairs that hugged the wall, the steps descending down into the darkness. He couldn’t see the faint glow of the kitchen light.

Was the light over the stove out?

There were no sounds in the house.

“Hello?” Travis called out. He felt a little stupid. He was really letting his nerves get to him. He left his bedroom and crept down the hall to the stairs. He still couldn’t see the kitchen light even from the top of the steps; there was nothing but darkness down there.

“Hello?” he called out again. His stomach was churning, his legs both rubbery and shaky with adrenaline.

There’s no one down there, he told himself. You just can’t see the light in the kitchen from this angle.

But it looked so dark down there. The kitchen light had to be off.

He was wasting time. He hurried back to his bedroom, heading straight for the dresser, about to pull the drawers open. But he turned and stared at the doorway. He thought he’d seen a shadow move out of the corner of his eye. He thought he’d heard the soft shifting of clothing, the exhale of a breath.

Nobody there in the doorway.

Travis grabbed some underwear and socks and turned to go back to the end of the bed.

And then he froze.

A man stood near the bathroom door. He had a gun in his gloved hand. The barrel of the gun seemed too long, and Travis realized that the gun had a silencer screwed onto it. The man was dressed from head-to-toe in black clothing.

“Stay right there,” the man whispered in a calm, almost conversational voice.

Travis remained still.

“Throw the clothes over there,” the man said, gesturing slightly with a move of his head.

Travis threw the balled-up socks and underwear over by the closet door. He raised his hands halfway up in surrender. His legs were trembling even more now, his stomach burning, his mouth going dry. Tears welled up in his eyes. “Please . . .”

“Take your shirt off,” the man said. His voice was still low and calm, but Travis could hear the edge in it, the threat of violence.

“Please . . . you don’t have to do this.”

“Take your shirt off.” The words were clipped, harder.

“I have money. My parents have a lot of money. How much do you want? Just name a price and it’s yours.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want you to take your shirt off like I told you to. And then I want you to take your pants off.”

“I . . . I . . .”

“Now,” the man barked. He shot a bullet at the floor near Travis’ feet. The gun made a spitting noise, and the bullet thudded into the carpet, leaving a small hole in it with a faint wisp of smoke and dust drifting up.

Travis did as he was ordered, tearing his shirt off, then kicking off his sneakers so he could pull his pants off.

“Throw them over there,” the man said, gesturing with a nod of his head again towards the closet door.

Travis tossed his clothes over by the collection of socks and underwear.

The man lowered his gun a little and reached behind his back with his left hand, pulling out a large hunting knife. He threw the knife down on the floor near Travis’ feet, the tip of the blade sticking down into the carpet and wood floor underneath it with a thunk.

Travis stared down at the hunting knife. It looked like something Rambo would carry around.

“Pick it up,” the man said.

Travis hesitated.

“Pick . . . it . . . up.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” Travis blubbered.

“I know what you did to that girl.”

“What girl?” Travis asked, but he realized that there would be no talking his way out of this because the man knew.

“Pick up the knife.”

Travis bent over and pulled the knife out of the floor. It was heavier than he expected. The blade was shiny; the closet light winked off the blade.

“I want you to stick the knife into the left side of your stomach . . . stick it in there deep.”

“What?” Travis cried. He couldn’t believe this was really happening.

The man aimed his gun at Travis. “Stick the knife into your left side. Stab it in there deep.”

Travis sobbed, shaking his head. “I . . . I can’t do that.”

The man reached into a pocket and pulled out a few photos, fanned them out like a hand of cards, and then tossed them over to Travis. They landed near his socked feet.

“Pick them up,” the man said.

Travis did as ordered. He stared in horror at photo after photo.

“Those are pictures of your family,” the man said. “Your mom and dad. Your sister. Your aunts and uncles. Your grandmother. I know where all of them are. I can get to them as easily as I got to you. If you do what I want, I’ll let them live. They shouldn’t have to suffer for what you’ve done in your past. But if you keep resisting, then I’ll skin them alive. I will hang each one of them up by their wrists and cut long pieces off of them until they scream themselves to death. I can’t be caught. I think you know that by now.”

Travis cried even harder.

“Now, I want you to stick that knife into your left side.”

“How . . . how do I know you won’t kill my family anyway?”

“You don’t.”

“Please . . . you have to swear to me.”

“I don’t want them. I only want you.”

Travis swallowed hard, still sobbing. He looked down at the knife in his trembling hand.

“Hurry, Travis. Hurry or I’m going to start shooting your knees out. You’re going to do what I want whether you have your kneecaps in the right places or not.”

Travis still hesitated.

The man pulled the trigger. The gun spit again. Travis’ right knee exploded in a spray of blood and bits of bone.

Instant agony. Travis collapsed to the floor, dropping the hunting knife. He grabbed his ruined knee gingerly, trying to hold it together, a sob stuck in his throat. The world went away for a moment—nothing existed in this new universe except white-hot pain.

“I told you . . .” The man was closer now, aiming his gun at Travis’ other knee. “I have a lot of bullets. We can do this all night.”

Travis rocked on the floor, still trying to hold his mangled knee together, blood soaking his hands and arms.

“You have one minute, Travis. One minute, or I’ll blow your other knee to pieces. Then your feet. Then your balls. Your choice.”

“Wait,” Travis said, his mouth hanging open, a line of drool mixed with blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He realized he’d bitten his tongue at some point when he’d fallen to the floor. The world seemed to be spinning. He felt like he was going to throw up. He felt like he was going to pass out.

“Travis. You now have thirty seconds.”

“Okay!”

Travis rolled over onto his back and clawed at the floor for the hunting knife. He found it, picked it up, held it in both hands above his belly which was shiny with sweat. The point of the blade was almost touching his flesh now, the handle slippery in his blood-stained hands.

“Fifteen seconds, Travis.”

“Okay!” he yelled again. “I’m doing it!” He stabbed the knife blade into the side of his belly, biting back a scream.

“Good,” the man said. “You’re doing really great so far, Travis.”

Travis moaned, clenching his teeth. He was so close to passing out now, so close to slipping away from all of this.

“Okay now, Travis. Stay with me. Listen. Okay?”

He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Now I want you to start cutting across your stomach. From left to right. You got that?”

Travis nodded.

“You’re going to have to saw really hard, but I think you can do it.”

Travis hesitated, moaning, still squeezing his eyes shut, breathing so hard he was hyperventilating.

“Do it,” the man whispered as he touched the barrel of the silencer against Travis’ good knee.

Travis started sawing.

ONE

Cathy

Two months later: Florida

Saturday

Cathy sat in the passenger seat staring out the windshield, watching the headlights do their best to push back the darkness as Phil drove their black Lexus down the lonely, two-lane road. This route was a shortcut that Phil liked to take when they drove to Polk County, but this stretch of road was remote, not much around except for woods, a few cattle ranches, and every once in a while a house set far off the road with cozy lights glowing inside the windows.

They’d both been quiet on the drive home after eating dinner with the Hendersons. Cathy looked at Phil as he concentrated on the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “They’re not going to make it, are they?” she said.

He shook his head slightly without looking at her. “Probably not. Once trust is broken in a relationship, it’s difficult to get it back.”

And trust had been broken in the Hendersons’ relationship. Sheldon and Emma Henderson were most likely headed for a divorce. Emma had caught Sheldon cheating on her two months ago. He had admitted to everything after being caught, and they had worked on their marriage from there, but Emma told Cathy on the phone last week that even though she and Sheldon had gone to marriage counseling, and even though Sheldon had cried and begged her to stay, even though he had promised never to cheat on her again, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to forgive him, ever be able to stay with him.

Cathy asked Emma if they wanted to schedule a meeting with Phil . . . just to talk about things. Maybe Phil could help. But she declined. Phil guessed that they probably weren’t comfortable talking to him, a friend of theirs, about their marriage problems. But he could definitely recommend some other psychologists or counselors.

Tonight’s dinner had gone smoothly enough. The Hendersons didn’t drink too much. There were no arguments or insinuations; just a bit of playacting from everyone, all of them pretending that everything was okay.

“I don’t want that to ever happen to us,” Cathy told Phil.

“It won’t.” He still wasn’t looking at her.

“I’m serious, Phil. I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.”

He finally looked at her with a reassuring smile. He took her hand in his, holding it gently. “No secrets. I promise.”

“No secrets,” she repeated. She looked back out the windshield. “Look out!!”

Phil ripped his hand out of her hand and grabbed the steering wheel. He stomped down on the brake pedal and the Lexus’ tires screeched in the night air, a cloud of smoke rising behind them in the red glow of the brake lights.

A pickup truck had pulled out in front of them from a side road and Phil had nearly plowed right into the back of it, stopping only inches away from the rear bumper. For a moment Cathy thought they had hit the truck, but it was speeding up a little, pulling away from them and puttering down the road.

“Shit!” Phil yelled. “He just pulled right out in front of us!”

Cathy didn’t say anything, still trying to catch her breath.

Phil laid on the horn and flashed his bright lights at the truck. In the glow of their headlights, it was hard to tell if the pickup was a dirty white or a dull gray. It was an older truck, maybe from the late eighties or the early nineties, with the Chevrolet emblem on the tailgate. The back end was jacked up slightly, with big tires on the back. Worn-out stickers cluttered up the bumper and tailgate, some of them scratched almost all the way off. A faded and bent Florida license plate was barely lit up by the tag lights. The driver was the only person in the cab, and he was just a shadow in the glow of their headlights. An empty gun rack hung in the back window behind him.

“Hello?” Phil yelled, flashing his brights again at the truck. “You didn’t see us?”

“Phil,” Cathy said. “It’s okay.”

“No,” Phil yelled at her, shocking her a little. He didn’t usually get this angry so quickly. “That guy could’ve killed us. It’s just so . . . so irresponsible.”

Phil backed off a little. The truck was gaining speed, but still driving well below the fifty-five mile an hour speed limit.

“He pulls out in front of us just to go slow,” Phil grumbled. “It was so urgent that he had to get in front of us.”

“He’s probably drunk,” Cathy said as if that was enough to excuse the man’s bad driving.

Phil glanced at the rearview mirror, slapped the turn signal handle down, and then punched the gas, speeding around the pickup truck to pass it.

Cathy held on. “Phil . . .”

She hated it when he passed other vehicles, but there was no one else within sight on this road.

As Phil passed the truck, Cathy looked at it, trying to get a better look at the driver. But the windows were tinted, and it looked so dark inside the cab, like the interior lights weren’t even on.

Phil darted in front of the pickup truck (a little too closely, Cathy thought) and then sped up, leaving the rumbling old truck in the distance.

“Feel better?” Cathy asked him.

“A little.”

They drove in silence for a moment.

“Wow, you really kind of lost your temper back there,” she told him.

“I’m sorry,” Phil finally said.

“It’s okay,” she told him. “I guess even psychologists are allowed to get angry sometimes.”

“Oh?” Phil asked, smiling now. “Are we?”

She was going to respond, but she noticed Phil eyeing the rearview mirror.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him.

“That truck, it’s catching up to us.”

Just as Cathy turned around in the passenger seat to look out the rear window of their Lexus, the truck shined its high beams at them, illuminating the interior of their car. The driver flashed his bright lights a few times and then blared his horn as he followed them closely now.

“Shit,” Phil mumbled and sped up to sixty miles an hour.

The truck sped up, still right on their rear.

“Let him pass you,” Cathy said as she turned back around in her seat.

“I don’t think he wants to pass.”

“Well, slow down a little so he can. You’re speeding up.”

Phil slowed down to fifty miles an hour, but the pickup stayed right on their tail. Phil sped up again, and the truck kept right up with them.

“He’s drunk,” Cathy said again. “He’s just trying to scare you. He’s probably mad because you shined your brights at him and honked your horn.”

“Well, he did pull out in front of us,” Phil reminded her, that sudden anger back again.

Cathy didn’t say anything.

“What? This is my fault?”

“I didn’t say that,” she told him.

Phil sped up to sixty-five miles an hour.

The truck stayed right with them.

Seventy miles an hour.

The truck was still there.

“Phil, slow down.” Cathy grabbed at the armrest and center console, gripping them hard. She saw the intersection up ahead. The traffic light was green, but there was a line of cars waiting at the side roads—the light was going to change soon. Phil sped towards the intersection at seventy-five miles an hour.

“Phil . . .”

“Hold on, Cathy.”

The traffic light turned yellow.

They were still so far away.

Phil sped up to eighty miles an hour … eighty-five.

“Phil, the light!”

They were still ten yards away from the intersection when the traffic light turned red. Phil punched the gas. Their car’s engine roared with power, and they darted into the intersection.

There’s at least a second or two of delay before the other lights turn green, Cathy told herself. We can make this.

They sped through the intersection. Cathy was sure that the truck would skid to a stop at the last second, but it didn’t—it followed them right through, amid blaring horns and screeching tires.

“This guy’s following us,” Phil said. “He’s really following us.”

“He’s just trying to scare us,” Cathy said.

“Well, he’s doing a great job.”

Phil’s attention was on something farther up the road—the entrance to a housing development off to the left.

“What is it?” Cathy asked.

“Hold on.”

“Phil, what are you—”

Phil slammed on the brakes and turned left at the same time, cutting right in front of a line of oncoming cars. Headlights bathed them with bright light for a few long, drawn-out seconds. She felt the back end of their Lexus actually sliding as Phil turned, and for that moment it didn’t feel like her husband had control of their vehicle anymore. For that moment she thought Phil might’ve miscalculated the speed of the oncoming traffic, and the impact with another car was coming. But Phil wrestled with the steering wheel, punched the gas, and they shot right into the subdivision entrance, leaving behind the sound of a fading horn.

Phil took the first right, speeding down the neighborhood street. Cathy was yelling at him, cursing at him, not even realizing what she was saying. Her voice sounded so far away to her own ears right now. Phil ignored her, focusing on the twists and turns of the neighborhood streets, focusing on getting away from that pickup truck.

“You’re going to kill us!” Cathy yelled at him.

They sped past the dark houses with cozy lights on inside, families bedding down for the night or relaxing in front of the flickering glow of their TVs.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Cathy yelled. “Slow down.”

Phil stopped at a stop sign and looked up and down the cross street—he didn’t see any headlights or taillights anywhere. “You see him?”

Cathy turned around and looked out the back window. She didn’t see any headlights behind them. She turned back around in her seat, still trembling from shock. “He’s not coming after us now. He was just messing around with you.”

“No. He was following us.”

Phil turned left and drove down the road as it meandered through the neighborhood. Mature oak trees towered in the front yards, their sprawling branches reaching out into the darkness, creating a canopy over the street in some places. They made a rough circle through the large neighborhood and eventually found their way back to the entrance. He slowed down as they got closer to the entrance. “If you see that truck, call 911,” he told her.

“Phil, don’t you think you’re overreacting a little?”

“Not if that truck’s waiting for us,” he said.

Cathy didn’t say anything, she only sighed in protest. But she picked up the cell phone to have it ready in her hand. She had to admit that it had been scary when the truck was following them, the way it had run that red light to keep up with them.

The pickup truck wasn’t waiting at the entrance for them. Cathy exhaled a long breath that she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.

Phil pulled out onto the road and continued on home, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror constantly as he drove.

“You could’ve killed us,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he drove, not looking at her.

Cathy just sighed in aggravation. She didn’t want to argue. It was over and she just wanted to go home. She thought about Megan, their fourteen-year-old daughter (she would be fifteen in a few days). She was home alone. Megan had begged them to let her stay at home rather than dragging her to some “boring old dinner.” They’d given in, Phil suggesting that they needed to let their daughter have some more responsibility. And so far she’d proven to be very responsible for her age. They had a security system at their house, and she’d promised to keep all of the windows and doors locked, and not to go out back by the pool. Cathy just wanted to get home and make sure Megan was okay. She wasn’t sure why she was suddenly worried about Megan, but she had the creeps now after that truck had followed them.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said again as he took her hand gently, like he’d done fifteen minutes earlier before the pickup truck had pulled out in front of them and they’d gone on their wild ride.

“It’s okay,” she said and gave him a smile.

Phil pulled into their sub-division, past “THE OAKS” sign with its little waterfall, the water pouring down the tumbled stones amid the lush landscaping—part of where their outrageous HOA fees went to. Right now she wished those fees had gone towards an electric gate at the entrance. She thought she might suggest it at the next HOA meeting.

This was an older neighborhood, a lot of the homes had been built in the late eighties and early nineties, but a large area of land had been cleared near the back of the neighborhood in the mid-2000’s, during the housing boom. Houses started going up everywhere in these new sections, but when the market crashed construction came to a screeching stop. Some of the houses stood half-finished when the money dried up. These homes were now just shells of stucco walls and tiled roofs, empty inside and bank-owned until they could be sold. The banks were sitting on thousands and thousands of these homes all over the state, waiting until the market perked back up, which it seemed like it was getting ready to do.

At least Cathy hoped so. She and Phil bought their home at precisely the wrong time, six months before the market crashed. Their house had been built out in the newest section—Phase something or another—and now it stood among countless empty lots that had been cleared for building. Now their home, and only one other, stood among the sea of empty lots out in this farthest section. Some of the lots already had the raw plumbing and sewer lines installed, little PVC pipes sticking up out of the ground like periscopes among the weeds that choked them now. It had been a little strange at first, and even a little eerie, with no other houses around them. But they’d gotten used to it. Tonight, though, that eerie feeling of being alone out here came rushing back to Cathy. It felt like their home was in the middle of a vast prairie.

Phil turned onto their empty street: Winding Oak Way (even though there wasn’t an oak tree in sight), and their home was halfway down the road on the left. The front porch and landscaping lights were on, providing a safe little bubble of light far off in the darkness.

They were almost to their house when bright lights from behind their car tore Cathy away from her thoughts. She turned around and saw the high beams from the pickup truck right behind them.

TWO

Phil

“Shit,” Phil breathed out.

“It’s him,” Cathy practically screeched.

Their car was still rolling towards their home. Phil had slowed the Lexus down now that they were almost to the corner of their front yard.

He knows where we live now.

Phil grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911—he wasn’t messing around with this guy anymore. He had come to a complete stop now at the corner of their property, where their manicured St. Augustine lawn butted up against the sand and weeds of the empty lot next to it. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror as the phone rang in his ear, but all he could see was the blinding light of the truck’s high beams.

“911,” a woman’s voice said on the phone. “What’s your emergency?”

“Someone has followed us home. Right to our house.”

“Who am I speaking to, sir?” the woman asked in a slightly bored voice.

“My name’s Phil Stanton.”

“Your address?”

Phil’s eyes flicked to the headlights shining in the rearview mirror. He made sure the car doors were still locked, but he could imagine the man getting out of his truck and coming towards them, materializing out of the bright glow of the headlights. Cathy was turned around in the passenger seat, shielding her eyes from the lights. “912 Winding Oak Way,” Phil told the 911 operator. “It’s in The Oaks sub-division off of Highway 301.”

“And you said someone has followed you to your home?”

“Yes,” Phil snapped. “We were driving home, and this pickup truck followed us all the way to our house.”

“Is the person there right now?”

“Yes. He’s right behind us. We’re parked in front of our house, and he’s right behind us in his truck with his bright lights on.”

“Okay, sir. I’m sending an officer out to you right now. Please don’t get out of your vehicle.”

“Megan!” Cathy shouted.

Phil’s heart lurched in his chest. He looked at the front porch. Their daughter had come outside. She stood at the edge of the porch by the steps. The porch lights bathed her in a yellowish glow, and Phil could see the confused look on her face all the way from where he sat. He rolled down the window. “Megan! Get back inside the house!”

“Sir,” the 911 operator squawked from the phone. But the phone was in Phil’s lap now. The operator sounded so far away. “Sir, is everything okay?”

No, everything’s not okay, he wanted to yell at her. Do people call 911 when everything’s okay?

Phil heard Cathy opening the passenger door. The interior lights came on.

“What are you doing?” He reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Stay here. I’ll go.”

Phil opened his door and got out before Cathy could argue.

Megan stood at the edge of the porch, frozen like prey spotting a predator, like a deer deciding whether to bolt or not.

Phil looked at the pickup truck parked behind them as he stood beside his car. He braced himself for the sound of gunshots, or for some maniac to get out of the pickup truck with some kind of long and sharp weapon.

But the man didn’t get out.

The clunk of the transmission echoed in the night air, and then the truck backed up quickly. It turned around in the middle of the road, the tires squealing, all of its lights switching off, making it just a black bulky shape now. The truck drove away, becoming part of the darkness.

Phil felt like he could breathe again. He looked back at Megan, but she wasn’t there. She must’ve gone back into the house. He jumped back into his car and closed the door. He shifted into drive and sped to their driveway, fumbling with the remote control clipped to the sun visor to open the garage door.

Cathy had Phil’s cell phone up to her ear, speaking into it. “He left. Yes, he turned around and left.” She looked at him. “She wants to know if we still want an officer to come out.”

“Yes,” Phil said. “That guy might come back. He knows where we live now.”

Phil pulled into the garage and parked. He pushed the button on the remote control to close the garage door. He got out of the car and stared at the dark road as the garage door rumbled down, almost expecting to see the white pickup truck drive by again, or even pull up into their driveway, splashing them with bright lights. Even though the truck was gone, he couldn’t help feeling that this wasn’t over. He stood by their car and watched until the garage door came down all the way.

Megan was in the kitchen, waiting for them when they went inside. She looked more confused than scared. “Why were you guys parked out in the street?”

“How many times have I told you not to open the front door at night when you’re here alone?” Phil snapped at her.

Megan looked stunned. “Who was in that truck behind you?”

“That’s not the point,” Phil said. “I thought you were more responsible than this. Maybe letting you stay home by yourself was a bad idea. You’re obviously not mature enough yet.”

Cathy jumped in between Phil and Megan. “Phil, that’s enough,” she said in a soft voice, but she shot him a warning look.

Phil sighed and took a deep breath. He knew he was overreacting, letting the stress get to him, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to walk away. He paced to the cabinets, and then back. He looked at Cathy, and then at Megan; she looked like she was about to cry. “I’m sorry,” he told Megan. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just a little rattled, that’s all.”

Megan looked at her mother. “What happened? Who was that guy in the truck?”

Phil let Cathy take it from there. He walked back to the cabinets and got a tumbler. He opened another cabinet and saw the bottle of whiskey sitting on the top shelf. He hesitated for just a moment, and then he took the bottle out of the cabinet. He grabbed an ice tray from the freezer and poured himself a straight shot.

He could feel Cathy’s eyes on him.

“You’re drinking?” she asked.

“I need to relax,” he told her without turning around to look at her.

“It’s just . . . just been so long since you’ve had one.”

“It’s just one, Cathy.”

“Who was that guy out there?” Megan asked again.

“I don’t know,” Cathy answered Megan as Phil drained half of his drink down. “He followed us home.”

Megan inhaled a sharp breath. “Oh my God. Followed you home? Why?”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Cathy said. “I think the guy was just trying to scare us.”

Phil gulped down the rest of his drink, the liquid warming his throat and then his belly. He poured another half glass and sipped this one. Cathy was right—it had been a long time since he’d had a drink, and he’d forgotten that warm, soothing feeling that alcohol could bring to him.

“How was your night?” Cathy asked Megan like she was trying to change the subject.

“Fine. I talked to Arianna for a while. She wants me to go to the movies with her this Tuesday for my birthday. And then she wants me to spend the night.” Megan glanced at Phil, then looked at Cathy. “Can I go? Please.”

Phil and Cathy locked eyes for a brief moment, and then Cathy looked at Megan and gave her a “we’ll see” smile. “We’ll talk about it later,” she told Megan.

His wife and daughter left the kitchen, Cathy’s arm around Megan’s shoulders. He figured Cathy was probably telling Megan that she would make sure Phil okayed it, but Phil still wanted to talk about it. He was definitely rattled from what had happened tonight, but he was also a little disappointed in Megan. She was going to be fifteen years old in a few days, and she still hadn’t learned enough responsibility to stay inside the house until they got home. He shuddered to think of what could’ve happened. What if that guy would’ve had a gun?

But he knew in the end that he would probably give in. Megan would be with her friend and most likely chaperoned by Arianna’s mother. He took another sip of his drink and left the kitchen, catching up to them in the living room. He wanted to apologize to his daughter a little more sincerely. He had overreacted; he had let his emotions get the best of him, and he was trained not to do that.

He saw the two of them whispering conspiratorially, and he was about to make some kind of joke to lighten everyone’s mood.

The doorbell rang.

Cathy jumped, stifling a scream. Megan’s eyes were wide with alarm again.

“I got it,” Phil said, setting his drink down on a side table. “It’s probably the cops.”

Cathy followed Phil to the front door. The security alarm was off if Megan had gone outside, and he was sure she hadn’t remembered to turn it back on, but he checked anyway before opening the front door.

An African-American officer stood underneath the front porch lights, dressed in uniform. “Mr. Stanton. I’m Officer Wells. 911 received a call that someone followed you home tonight.”

“Yes,” Phil said. He looked back at Cathy and Megan who stood together, staring at the police officer.

Phil stepped out onto the front porch and closed the door. The front porch ran nearly half the front of the home. The wide floor was covered with smooth paver stones. The columns of the porch were stacked stone. Three wide steps led down to the concrete path that ran from the porch to their driveway. Tropical landscaping decorated the space between the front porch and the path. They had some porch furniture out here that they never used.

“Thank you for coming by so quickly,” Phil said.

“The person who followed you home,” Officer Wells said. “He’s not here now?”

“No.”

“So, he left,” Officer Wells said like he was making sure. He pulled out a small leather bound notepad and a pen to take some notes.

“He was right behind us out there on the street,” Phil said, pointing at the road in front of their home with the empty lots beyond it. The line of dark woods in the distance could barely be seen at night. “We were coming home from a dinner with friends and this guy in a pickup truck started following us home. I lost him for a while when I drove through a neighborhood. Everything seemed fine, but when we turned onto our street, he was right behind us, shining his bright lights at us. We stopped in front of our home. Our daughter, Megan, she’s fourteen, almost fifteen; she came outside on the front porch to see what was going on. I got out of the car, and then the pickup truck just backed up and turned around. And then he left.”

Officer Wells nodded, just staring at Phil. “So you’re saying this person followed you all the way home.”

“Well, yeah. He followed us halfway home. He pulled out in front of us from a side road. I didn’t even see him until the last minute. I had to slam on the brakes. I almost hit him.”

“He pulled out in front of you?” Officer Wells asked, jotting something down. He looked at Phil, waiting for an answer.

“Well, yeah. He pulled out in front of us. He could’ve killed us. But then he was driving real slow.”

Officer Wells just nodded.

“It was like he was going slow on purpose,” Phil said. “I had to pass him.”

“When this pickup truck pulled out in front of you, did you honk your horn at him? Flash you bright lights?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Officer Wells waited patiently for Phil’s answer.

“Yes,” Phil sighed. “I got a little angry. He could’ve hurt us. He could’ve killed us.”

Officer Wells jotted down something else in his notebook.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Phil asked the police officer.

“Did you get the tag number of this truck, Mr. Stanton?”

Phil felt his stomach sink a little. “No. It was a Florida tag, I remember that.”

“Can you give me a description of the vehicle?”

“It was an older truck. I’m not sure what year. A Chevy. I saw the Chevy emblem on the tailgate. There were seven or eight bumper stickers on the back. There was a gun rack in the back window. There was one of those metal toolbox things in the back. Big tires on the back. It sounded powerful.”

Officer Wells just nodded and Phil could read the expression in the man’s eyes: That describes a lot of work trucks in this area.

“What about the driver?” Officer Wells asked. “Did you get a look at him? Was there anyone else in the truck?”

“Just the driver, I think, and no, I didn’t get a good look at him. The windows were tinted.” Phil was getting more of a sinking feeling in his stomach now.

Officer Wells snapped his small notebook shut and tucked it away.

“So, there’s not much you can do,” Phil said.

“I’m afraid not.”

“So, that’s it? Somebody follows us all the way home and there’s nothing you can do about it?”

“Mr. Stanton, have you been drinking tonight?”

Phil felt his stomach drop again. “I . . . I don’t see what that has to . . . uh, yeah. I made a drink when I got home.”

“That’s it? You weren’t drinking earlier? When you were driving? When this man in the pickup truck pulled out in front of you?”

“What kind of question is that? No. Of course not. I don’t drink and drive. I haven’t had anything to drink in quite a while, but after tonight, after what happened, I made a drink when I got home. I can’t help it I’m a little rattled because that guy followed us all the way home and now he knows where we live.”

“Okay,” Officer Wells said, seemingly satisfied. He looked like he was about to walk away.

“That’s it?” Phil asked.

“I’m afraid that’s all I can do right now. If you see the truck again—”

“I know, dial 911.”

“You have a pleasant night, Mr. Stanton.”

“Actually, it’s Dr.”

Officer Wells started to walk through Phil’s front lawn to his police cruiser that was parked out in the street, but he turned around and looked at Phil. He gave a curt nod. “Sorry. Dr. Stanton.”

And then the officer was gone, walking to his squad car.

What if the guy in the pickup truck comes back later tonight? Phil wondered, but he didn’t bother asking the police officer.

THREE

Phil

Two hours and two drinks later Phil got ready for bed.

Phil paced the bedroom with his fourth drink of the night in his hand, his head swimming a little. “So that’s what I get for my tax dollars?”

Cathy rubbed some lotion on her hands as she walked to the bed. “What’s he supposed to do? Drive around and look for an old white pickup truck?”

“You don’t seem too concerned about this,” Phil said and then inwardly winced at the harshness of his words. The whiskey was talking, making him blurt things out before thinking about them.

“I am concerned,” Cathy said before Phil could apologize for how accusatory his words might have sounded. She didn’t seem offended. She sat on the bed and tilted her head to the side just slightly as she looked at him, almost an expression of pity. “I was scared tonight, just like you were. But I really think it’s over. I think it was just some—”

“I know, it was just some drunk guy trying to scare us.”

Phil let it go for now. He was still a little tense, but the whiskey was helping him relax. But he still couldn’t get rid of that nagging certainty that their stalker was going to come back later tonight. He couldn’t shake that ominous feeling that all of this was far from over. He felt jittery, like he needed to pace, like he needed to do something to burn off this excess energy that buzzed inside of him.

“Come to bed,” Cathy said.

Cathy was the one being practical right now, and he should think that way, too. She was right, it probably was some guy trying to scare them, some guy who had pushed things too far and then turned around at the last minute when he realized that Phil was calling the police. But Phil hadn’t had his cell phone in his hand when he’d gotten out of the car. But maybe the driver of the truck had assumed that they had called the police by then. Maybe the driver of the truck had seen them using the phone—God knew his headlights had been bright enough to light up the interior of their car.

It didn’t matter. It was over now. He was just going to have to push this oppressive cloud of fear away that was hanging over him.

He swallowed down the rest of his drink and started walking towards the bedroom door.

“Where are you going?” Cathy asked.

“Just putting the glass away,” he told her. He almost added that he wasn’t getting another drink, but he didn’t.

He took the empty glass to the kitchen. He really did want another one, but he didn’t pour one. It wasn’t just the look he’d gotten from Cathy, but he also knew it was a sign that he was getting beyond buzzed and heading towards being drunk when he craved another drink even though he’d definitely had enough.

Instead of making another drink, he checked down the hall off of the kitchen. Megan’s light was still on underneath her door. She would probably be up for a few more hours, playing on her computer or watching a movie or listening to music. It was Saturday night, and she was allowed to stay up as late as she wanted when it wasn’t a school night. He thought for a moment about knocking on her door and apologizing for snapping at her earlier, but then he thought of her standing at the edge of the front porch and staring at them with that confused, deer-like stare, and the thought of it made him angry again. Why couldn’t she just listen to him?

Because she was a teenager.

Didn’t she understand how dangerous the world could be?

Phil decided he was too buzzed to try to talk to Megan tonight. He would sleep on it, and he would definitely apologize to her in the morning when he got up, or more likely the afternoon. He remembered Cathy saying something about her and Megan going shopping tomorrow morning for some early birthday presents. Megan had gotten to the age where she wanted to pick out her own presents.

Back in the kitchen, he checked the door that led out to the garage. Then he made his rounds of the house, checking windows and doors again. He peeked out the front windows at the dark street and the even darker plots of land beyond it that might never have houses built on them. He left the porch and landscaping lights on, the light spilling halfway across their front lawn. He checked the alarm system for probably the third time tonight and then headed to the bedroom.

In the bedroom, Cathy was already under the sheets on her side of the bed. Phil slipped on a pair of shorts and changed into a T-shirt. He brushed his teeth and then turned off the lights. The glow from the landscaping lights outside illuminated their bedroom with just enough light to see in the dark. He crept to the bed and lay down on his side, rolling over to face away from Cathy.

If she had thought about making love tonight, she wasn’t making the first move. Maybe she wasn’t in the mood for it—and he wasn’t, either. Maybe she was just as worn out as he was from their harrowing experience tonight. Maybe the best thing was to go to sleep and start over in the morning. The alcohol had done its trick, lulling him to sleep. He closed his eyes, breathing deeper. He thought he was going to have a difficult time sleeping, but before he knew it he was out . . . and he was dreaming.

• • •

In Phil’s dream, he saw the face of a young woman, a teenager really, maybe a girl about Megan’s age. He could only see her face and part of her body, a shirt that was speckled with blood. She also had smears of blood on her face. Her eyes were wide and she was breathing hard, panting. She might be going into shock. She was lying down, her hair spilled out underneath her. It was dark and Phil didn’t know where they were, but he was right beside the girl. It felt like they were floating in a void somewhere, everything else around them blotted out in impenetrable darkness.

He didn’t know this girl . . . but at the same time he did. He knew her from somewhere. He knew her name was Dolores.

Dolores’ mouth was open halfway, and she was trying to say something, moving her jaw up and down, her tongue lolling around inside as she tried to form words. Her split lips were trembling. Tears flowed out of her eyes, mixing in with the splatters of blood all over her face. Her wide eyes stared up at him as she struggled to speak. She needed to tell him something . . . something very important.

• • •

Phil awoke from the nightmare. He didn’t sit up in bed or even jump up. He just opened his eyes, lying there and staring into the darkness of their bedroom, listening to his heart thudding in his chest. He glanced at the alarm clock on the table next to the bed; the red digital numbers seemed to float in the darkness. It was almost three o’clock in the morning.

He knew the dream had woken him up . . . but there was something else.

A sound.

And then he heard it—a rumbling sound coming from outside.

He lay there for a moment, very still, just listening, making sure that the noise was real.

It was real. It was coming from outside. And he knew what that sound was because he’d heard it earlier tonight . . . it was the rumbling motor of the white pickup truck.

Phil jumped out of bed and darted to their bedroom window that looked out onto the front lawn.

Cathy rolled over and murmured something that he couldn’t make out.

He peeked through the blinds and saw the white pickup truck parked on the street in front of their home. The headlights were on, the engine rumbling. Smoke drifted up from the dual exhaust pipes, creating a ghostly mist in the glow of the taillights. The driver’s window was black.

Phil’s heart seemed to freeze in his chest for a moment as he stared at the truck, and then his heart thumped and began to beat rapidly again, like it was trying to get back into a rhythm. He ran to the end table with the alarm clock on it and grabbed the cordless phone.

Cathy was wide awake now, sitting up in bed. “What’s wrong?”

Phil didn’t answer her. He dialed 911 on the phone.

The 911 operator picked up on the second ring. “911. What’s your emergency?”

“What are you doing, Phil?” Cathy asked.

“I need the police,” Phil said, walking away from the bed with the phone up to his ear. He felt a little groggy from the four whiskeys he’d had earlier, but there was also an energy buzzing through his body.

“Phil?” Cathy snapped. She got out of bed, her silky nightgown clinging to her shapely body.

“My name is Dr. Phil Stanton,” Phil told the operator in a rush of words. He needed to slow down. “I called earlier about a pickup truck that followed us home. An Officer Wells came out to talk to us. That truck is back. It’s parked in front of our house right now.”

Cathy inhaled a sharp breath of air.

Phil was at the window. “Our address is 912 Winding Oak Way.”

“I’m sending a unit out to you right now,” the operator said. “Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”

“No, thanks.” Phil hung up. He felt better knowing the police were on their way. He peeked out at the truck again . . . the headlights were still on, the truck’s engine still rumbling, exhaust still drifting up from the tailpipe.

Cathy sat on the edge of the bed. She was fumbling with the lamp.

“Cathy, no,” Phil said as he hurried back to her. “Don’t turn on the lights. I don’t want him to know we spotted him.”

“That truck is out there?” she asked.

“Yes. The police are on their way.”

Cathy stood up. She looked like an apparition with her silky white nightgown in the darkness.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to see.”

“I don’t want him to see us looking out the window. I want him to wait right there so the police can catch him this time.”

Cathy stood there for a moment beside the bed, and then she went to the chair near the closet to grab her robe that was tossed over the back of it.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to check on Megan.”

“Shit,” Phil whispered. He hadn’t even thought of Megan—she might have heard the noise outside. She might be turning on her bedroom light and looking out her window, or hell, she might be opening the front door right now and walking out to the edge of the porch.

He followed Cathy out of their bedroom and into the living room. His eyes darted to the front door. It was closed, and the alarm system keypad near it was on, that reassuring green glow shining in the darkness.

Cathy hurried down the hall to Megan’s room. The strip underneath the door was dark, her bedroom light off. Phil waited a few feet back as Cathy opened Megan’s door and peeked inside. She stood there for a few seconds, and then she closed the door almost all the way. She crept back to Phil and they went to the kitchen.

“She’s okay,” Cathy whispered. “Sleeping.”

Phil sighed in relief.

Cathy left the kitchen. She marched right to the living room windows that looked out onto the front porch.

“Cathy,” Phil said, catching up to her.

“I don’t care if he sees me,” Cathy hissed as she got to the window. “We need to see what he’s doing.”

Phil waited as Cathy turned the wooden stick and opened the wood blinds just enough for her to see out through them. She stared out the window for a few seconds and then looked back at Phil with a confused expression. “No one’s out there.”

Phil rushed over to the window next to hers and opened the blinds all the way.

The truck was gone.

He looked up and down the street as far as he could through the window, but the pickup truck wasn’t there anymore.

“I saw the truck,” Phil said. “It was parked right there just a few seconds ago.”

Cathy stared at him.

“I swear I saw it.”

FOUR

Phil

Officer Wells stood on the front porch as Phil opened the front door and stepped outside. He closed the door softly. This felt like a replay of their conversation a few hours earlier.

Officer Wells’ expression was neutral, but Phil swore he saw just the trace of annoyance in the cop’s face. “Hello again, Dr. Stanton,” he said, emphasizing the word doctor.

“The pickup truck. It was here. Just a few minutes ago.”

“Okay. You’re sure this was the same vehicle?”

“Yes. An older truck. White. Or maybe light gray. It’s hard to tell in the dark. Bigger tires on the back than on the front. No extended cab.” He shook his head—he didn’t know what else to say.

“Still only the driver inside? No one else in the truck?”

“I think it was only the driver, but I don’t know. The windows are tinted, and it was hard to see.”

“How about the license plate?”

Phil shook his head slowly. “I only saw the truck from the driver’s side.”

Officer Wells nodded.

“I know I’m not being too helpful here,” Phil said. “But this is serious. I don’t think this is just some guy trying to scare us. I think he might be checking our place out, stalking us. Like he’s casing the house or something.”

“I’ll turn in the information that I have.”

“That’s it?”

“I’ll see if I can get a squad car to do a few extra patrols around the streets here over the next few nights. But no promises.”

“And if I see the truck again, just call 911,” Phil said, and he realized that it had come out sounding sarcastic.

“Do you have a security system?” Officer Wells asked. If he’d been offended by Phil’s statement, he wasn’t showing it.

“Yes.”

“Make sure it’s turned on at all times.”

Phil nodded, but he didn’t say anything.

“You have a good night, Dr. Stanton,” Officer Wells said, and then he started walking back to his squad car.

Phil was going to ask the police officer how he was supposed to have a good night when there was some guy in a pickup truck stalking them. But he remained silent and watched as Officer Wells got into his car.

• • •

Phil closed and locked the front door. He punched in the code on the keypad and watched as the little screen read: ALL SYSTEMS ON.

Cathy sat on the couch, on the edge of the cushion, hunched forward, watching Phil. “Well?”

“He said there wasn’t much he could do.”

“Phil, are you sure you saw that truck out there?”

Phil wasn’t surprised by his wife’s question; he figured that the thought had crossed her mind. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“I know you got a little freaked out earlier when that guy followed us home. Maybe you had a nightmare. Maybe you were half-awake when you looked out the bedroom window.”

“You think I dreamed this?”

“It could be possible. You were mumbling in your sleep earlier, tossing and turning a little, like you were having a nightmare.”

An image of the girl’s bloody face he’d seen in the dream flashed in his mind. He pushed it away. “I wasn’t half-asleep. I saw the truck out there. I heard it. You didn’t hear the truck out there? You didn’t hear the engine rumbling?”

Cathy shook her head. “No.”

“So you think I dreamed this?” Phil asked, his voice rising.

“Sshh. You’ll wake Megan up.”

Phil forced himself to calm down. He took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. He took another breath. It was one of the breathing exercises that he taught his patients how to do. He walked towards Cathy, but he didn’t sit down on the couch beside her. “I saw it.”

Cathy nodded and stood up. “I believe you. Let’s go back to bed.”

Phil sat down on the couch as she stood up.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m sleeping out here.”

“Phil . . .”

“I . . . I’d just feel better sleeping out here for the rest of the night.” But he knew he wouldn’t be going back to sleep any time soon.

And Cathy knew it, too. She stared at him for a moment, and then she walked away.

Phil remained on the couch. He looked at the front door and the front windows. He could imagine that pickup truck turning onto their street now. Or maybe the man had parked it on another block of empty lots, its lights off, just waiting until Officer Wells left. And now he was coming back, maybe walking up the street this time, a lone figure in the darkness.

Cathy came back with a bedsheet and a pillow. She handed them to him.

“Cathy, I’m sorry . . .”

“It’s okay,” she said. “You’re just upset. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

She bent down and pecked him on the cheek, but he didn’t feel any real emotion in her kiss. She seemed tired, like she just wanted to get back to sleep. She walked away.

“Thanks for understanding,” he told her, not masking the sarcasm.

But she was gone.

Phil got up and made his “bed” on the couch. Then he walked to the front windows and peeked out through the blinds again. He thought about leaving them open, but decided against it. He stood there in the darkness for a moment, and then went into the kitchen. He turned on the light over the stove.

He needed proof if this guy came back.

He’d take a photo with his cell phone . . . it’s what he should’ve done earlier.

Phil grabbed his cell phone, and a small digital camera from one of the drawers in the kitchen as a backup. He also grabbed a pad and a pen to write down the license plate number. And one more drink wouldn’t hurt, just one more to help him relax.

He set his phone, camera, the tablet, pen, and his glass of whiskey down on the coffee table, and then he sat down on the edge of the couch. He’d left the light on in the kitchen and the soft glow allowed him enough light to see by. He sipped the whiskey and then lay down on the couch, facing the window and the front door.

The world was still silent out there.

His eyes began to close.

FIVE

Phil

Sunday

Phil jumped awake from a pounding on the front door.

He sat up. It was daylight. He glanced at the coffee table, at the empty whiskey glass, his phone, the pad and pen. The bedsheet was crumpled up at the end of the couch, his pillow bunched up at the other end of the couch where his head had been seconds ago.

Another series of knocks on the front door—someone was pounding on it.

Phil got to his feet, stumbling a few steps away from the couch. His legs were weak, his mind groggy. He hurried to the front windows and peeked out through the blinds of the farthest window.

The white pickup truck was parked out in the street. It looked like the engine was off.

More pounding at the door.

Phil looked to the left to see who was at the door, but he couldn’t see anyone from where he was. It was like the driver of the truck was purposely keeping to the other side of the door to stay out of view.

Phil’s heart pounded in his chest. He backed away from the window as an unreal feeling washed over him. The guy had come back. He was out there right now.

He ran to the table to grab his cell phone.

A rattling noise from the front door startled him. The door handle was jiggling violently like the guy was trying to turn it.

But it was locked.

Wasn’t it?

And then he saw the lock on the door handle slowly turn. Then the deadbolt knob clicked to the unlocked position with a loud thud.

How . . .?

The door handle was turning now, the door opening.

“Cathy!” Phil screamed as he grabbed his cell phone. “Megan!”

No answer. Where were they?

The door flew open.

Phil turned back to the doorway and saw the girl from his dream standing there, blood all over her face, one eye swollen shut. Her split lips were trembling as she tried to speak, trying to tell him something important . . .

. . . and then he snapped awake, sitting bolt-upright on the couch. He stared at the front windows, and then at the front door. The door was still closed, the deadbolt still locked, the keypad near the door still lit up.

He let out a slow breath. It had just been a dream. He was shaky, his skin clammy and hot. The bedsheet was balled up at the other end of the couch and his pillow bunched up at the other end just like in the dream.

He got up on shaky legs and walked past the coffee table littered with his stuff from last night. He went into the kitchen and saw a piece of paper on the fridge, held there by a touristy magnet they’d gotten in Key West a few years ago on vacation. He pulled the paper off the fridge and read the note Cathy had left for him.

We went shopping. Love you, Cathy and Megan.

He laid the note down on the granite countertop and rubbed at his face. He felt the day’s growth of stubble there. His hair was spiky with sweat from his fitful sleep on the couch. He still felt jittery and weak.

“What time is it?” he whispered to himself.

The clock on the stove read: 10:31 a.m.

He opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. He unscrewed the plastic cap and chugged the water down. So thirsty. He stood in front of the open refrigerator for a moment, the cool air refreshing on his skin.

The pounding at the door was just a nightmare—he knew that. The image of the bloody girl still bothered him. But the pickup truck he’d seen parked out in front of their home last night, that hadn’t been a dream—he was sure of it.

Phil closed the refrigerator door and went to his bedroom to get dressed.

He put on a pair of jeans, a fresh T-shirt, and some socks. He slipped his feet into a pair of sneakers and half-assed combed his hair. He brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth with mouthwash, and then went to the front door.

At the front door, he hesitated for just a moment, his fingers on the buttons to turn off the alarm. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadowy man from the pickup truck might be right on the other side of the door.

Come on, he told himself. The guy’s not out there.

Phil turned the alarm off and unlocked the front door. He yanked the door open.

No one there.

He stepped out onto the front porch. The day was bright and already hot, the sky a deep blue with a few wispy clouds drifting by. Those wispy clouds would build into thunderstorm clouds later, like they did practically every afternoon at this time of year.

He stepped off the front porch down onto the concrete path, and then he walked across the deep, spongy St. Augustine grass to the road. He felt a little strange, his skin buzzing with energy, scared and excited at the same time . . . a strange combination. Of course the wonderful hangover could be affecting him, too—it had been a while since he’d had one. His head was throbbing with a dull ache, throbbing with each heartbeat.

He’d been hesitant to go outside, hesitant to even open the door. Maybe this was how a panic disorder started, the first steps to hiding away in his home after a trauma. But he was a psychologist. He knew the signs, and he knew how to fight against them. And one of the first steps in fighting anxiety was to face one’s fears.

There were no cars or trucks in sight. The only other house in view was Barbara’s house over on the next block. If houses were ever built across the street one day, they would completely block her house from his view, but he could see it now with nothing in the way. Barbara’s home was large, the second story rising above a wood fence constructed around it. Attached to the back of the house was a screened enclosure built around the pool.

Phil walked a little ways down the road in front of their home, towards the spot where he’d seen the pickup truck parked last night. There was a dark spot on the road. He crouched down to get a closer look. He touched the dark spot with his finger, and then looked at the brown smudge on the tip of his finger. Oil? Probably. Maybe the guy’s truck had a slight oil leak.

He thought about combing the area for other clues. Maybe he would find a cigarette butt or something. Maybe he would find some kind of clues that he could show Officer Wells if he had to call him back out again.

“Hey, Phil.”

Phil jumped to his feet, his heart pounding.

Barbara, his neighbor from the next block, stood there in her workout clothes, out for her morning walk. She was probably in her mid-fifties and dedicated to her exercise routine. She had her usual radiant smile of perfect teeth. She lived alone. Phil wasn’t sure if she’d been single for a long time or if she’d gotten divorced. Maybe her husband had died. Cathy would probably know; she and Barbara had gotten to be good friends over the last year and a half since she was their only neighbor within a mile. They joked that they were going to form their own little HOA for this part of the neighborhood, the Forgotten Phase, as Cathy liked to call it. Barbara didn’t have any kids living with her; he remembered Cathy saying that both of Barbara’s kids were grown and living in their own homes with their own families.

“Hey, Barbara,” Phil said, breathing out the words in relief.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said, smiling.

“No . . . it’s okay.” He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly embarrassed about his overreaction. How had he not seen her moments ago when he’d been crouched down to investigate the oil spot? How long had he been staring at that spot of oil on his finger?

“You lose something?” Barbara asked. She was slightly out-of-breath. Maybe she had been running, or at least walking at a fast pace.

“No. It’s nothing.” He wanted to change the subject as he wiped the tip of his finger off on his pants leg. “How have you been?”

“Great,” she answered, nodding, that big smile still on her face. “Everything’s fine. I was just out for my morning walk. It’s such a beautiful morning.”

Already hot, Phil almost said, but he didn’t want to sound like he was complaining. Instead, he said: “Yes, it is.”

“Well,” Barbara said and then let the word linger.

Phil could tell that they had run out of pleasantries and were venturing into awkwardness now.

“I better get going,” Barbara finally said. “Tell Cathy and Megan I said hi.”

“I will.”

“And tell Cathy to give me a call,” Barbara said, turning around as she began walking away.

“Will do.”

Phil watched her walk away for a moment, and then he called her name. “Barbara.”

She stopped and turned around, an expectant look on her face, her smile still there. She was the kind of person that wanted to do anything to help others. Cathy said she was always doing volunteer work. “Yes?”

He walked up to her, not sure how to phrase the question, so he just spit it out. “I know this is going to sound a little strange, but have you seen an old pickup truck driving around here lately?”

Her smile slipped just a little. She cocked her head slightly in an exaggerated expression of thinking the question over. She shook her head slightly. “No. Why?”

“It’s nothing. I . . .” He thought about telling her what had happened, but then thought the better of it; he didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily if the guy in the truck was no longer a threat. “No reason. Forget I said anything. Sorry.”

But Phil could tell that Barbara had no intention of forgetting what he’d asked her. Her smile was back, but it looked a little forced now. “Have Cathy call me when she gets the chance.”

He nodded. He could imagine her asking Cathy why Phil was asking about an old pickup truck prowling the neighborhood, and why he was inspecting the road in front of their home. He had probably officially piqued her curiosity.

Barbara continued her fast-walk down the street, and Phil strolled back up to his house.

SIX

Cathy

Cathy and Megan had a great time shopping—Megan had gotten a few things she really liked, but the one thing she seemed to love the most was a bright pink hoodie.

Cathy had been a little preoccupied during their shopping adventure. She couldn’t help thinking about Phil and his little episode last night. She believed deep down that Phil had dreamed (or even imagined) that he’d seen the pickup truck parked in the street last night. He had probably been trapped in that half-asleep/half-awake world for just a moment when he’d seen the truck, that area between the dream world and the waking world where visions from his dreams overlapped into reality. Or maybe the trauma of being followed all the way home by a stranger had really gotten to him. It definitely concerned her, but what she really couldn’t get off of her mind was the woman’s name that Phil had muttered in his sleep.

Dolores.

Phil had fallen asleep before her, practically knocked unconscious by his four glasses of whiskey. But sleep hadn’t come so easily for her. She had tossed and turned a little, falling in and out of sleep. At some point in the night she’d heard Phil moaning. He was on his back, his face a little sweaty, his features scrunched up in . . . in what? Fear? Anguish? Anger? And then he had whispered the woman’s name—Dolores. He’d said it only once, but she’d heard it clearly. She had thought about waking him up, but he had fallen into a deep sleep again, beginning to snore. She’d finally fallen asleep for a while, but then Phil woke her up later when he was calling the police and peeking out the bedroom window.

She hadn’t told Phil that she’d heard him say the woman’s name. And why say anything about it? It probably didn’t mean anything. He could’ve been dreaming about anything. He might have a patient named Dolores. Phil rarely spoke to her about his patients, and she understood that aspect of his job. She was sure there were times when he would love to unload the pressures built up from the day, but he had no one to talk to about them because of the doctor/patient confidentiality he was sworn to uphold. So maybe it was natural that the problems he worked through might come out in his dreams.

This was the first time that she could remember hearing Phil talk in his sleep, the first time she’d seen him thrash around from a nightmare.

Maybe she was being unreasonable. Phil had been somewhat traumatized by the man who had followed them home—she was sure of that. And she had to admit that it had rocked her, too. Maybe they were each dealing with it in their own ways.

And one way Phil seemed to be dealing with it was by drinking. She couldn’t believe he had started drinking again. He’d definitely had a problem with his drinking when they’d first met, but they had been in college at the time, and she had overlooked it. But a few years later, when Cathy found out she was pregnant with Megan, Phil admitted that he’d been drinking too much and he quit. Just like that. No AA, no support groups, he just quit. And in these last fifteen years Phil had been pretty much abstinent; he’d only had the occasional cocktail at a party or holiday gathering, almost like he needed to prove to himself that he had conquered his urges, that he could have only one drink without it triggering his obsession with it, that he had total control over his addiction. But last night Phil had really knocked them back.

But maybe she shouldn’t worry about it; maybe it was just a one-time thing.

As her shopping day with Megan went on, Cathy still couldn’t help thinking about Phil talking in his sleep. She knew it was silly, but she couldn’t help fearing that Dolores was someone Phil was close to, someone he knew well, someone Phil might be seeing. After what had happened to Emma and Sheldon, a couple that Cathy never thought would be unfaithful to each other, it seemed like it could happen to anyone. She even thought about calling Emma up and talking to her about Phil’s nocturnal mutterings.

But she wasn’t going to do that. It wouldn’t be fair to Phil to go gossiping behind his back, practically accusing him with so little proof. And what would Emma suggest? Emma seemed ready to accuse any man of cheating these days. Cathy didn’t need Emma putting those kinds of thoughts in her head right now and fueling her already out-of-control suspicions.

No, she would just file this away as one strange weekend, and hopefully it was over. Hopefully that man had had his fun and he’d “taught them a lesson” for honking their horn and flashing their brights at him.

Of course there was always the possibility that Phil had really seen that truck out there last night for a moment. There was always the possibility that the man in the pickup truck had come back.

That was a scary thought that Cathy didn’t want to face. But if that was true, if Phil had really seen the truck again last night, then what could they do that they hadn’t already done? They had notified the police, and now they would just have to be careful. They would just have to be ready to call the police if they saw the truck again.

“You ready to go?” Cathy asked Megan. They were on their fifth store now. But Cathy didn’t mind—this was part of her birthday presents to Megan. Megan was getting too old now to surprise her with gifts; Cathy would rather just take her out and let her pick out what she really wanted.

“Yeah,” she said smiling. “I love everything I got today,” she said, giving Cathy a quick hug. “Thanks for my birthday presents.”

“You’re welcome, baby.”

They walked to the car. “Mom? Have you thought about what I asked you yesterday? Going with Arianna to the movies on Tuesday?”

Cathy didn’t answer for a moment; she just kept on walking to her SUV with the plastic shopping bags in her hands.

“Please, Mom.”

“It’s a school night.”

“I know, but we won’t be out that late.”

“You know I don’t like you staying over there on a school night.”

“I’ll get up for school on time,” Megan said, already knowing the fears Cathy was going to express. “I promise. And Arianna’s mom can take me to school. I just want . . . I really want to go with her to the movies.”

Cathy couldn’t help wondering if Megan and Arianna were planning something else for that night, but she hoped they were still too young for that kind of deviousness. But maybe not. If she let Megan go, then she would have to double check with Arianna’s mother about their plans for the night.

“Let me talk it over with your father.”

Megan frowned. “He’s probably not going to let me go.”

“Why do you say that?” Phil was the one who usually gave in to Megan all the time.

She shrugged. “He’s just been acting a little weird lately.”

“He was just frightened last night,” Cathy said, jumping right to Phil’s defense. “So was I. It was really scary.”

Megan nodded, but Cathy knew that her daughter meant that Phil had been acting a little weird even before the crazy man in the pickup had followed them home. She tried to think back over the last few weeks, trying to pinpoint examples of that “weirdness,” as Megan called it, but she didn’t want to put in the effort of singling out memories right now. And maybe there weren’t any particular things that Phil had done, but Cathy couldn’t deny feeling the same way Megan did, that Phil had been acting a little strange lately. And maybe that was the whole reason behind her suspicions of him cheating on her.

Stop it, she told herself. She’d already promised herself that she wasn’t going to dwell on that anymore.

Cathy gave her daughter a quick hug, feeling her daughter (who was nearly as tall as she was now) pull away. “I’ll get your father to say yes,” she said.

Megan brightened at that.

• • •

Phil was eating a sandwich when Cathy and Megan got home. He helped them haul in the multiple shopping bags with expensive department store names and logos on them.

“Successful shopping adventure, I presume,” Phil said when they were all inside the house.

“Yes,” Megan answered, practically dancing on her toes. “So many deals out there.” She dropped her bags on the kitchen table and rummaged through one of them. She pulled out the bright pink knit hoodie with tags hanging off the sleeves. It looked a little too small and tight to Cathy, but at least Phil didn’t say anything.

“See this?” Megan asked Phil, holding the hoodie up to herself. “Half price.”

Phil nodded. “You’re a shrewd shopper.” He picked up the other half of his sandwich and took a bite.

Megan turned to Cathy. “I’m going to try everything on again.” She collected her bags and was off to her bedroom.

Cathy took her three bags to their bedroom.

Phil followed her, still eating his sandwich.

“You feeling better?” Cathy asked him as she set her bags on the end of the bed.

“Yeah.”

“What time did you wake up?”

“Around ten.”

“We tried to be quiet when we left so we wouldn’t wake you. Were you up all night?”

Phil shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really remember falling asleep. I drank another glass of whiskey . . . and then, I don’t know, I guess I fell asleep.”

She watched him as he popped the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth, chewing. He did look better now. Maybe some more sleep had helped him. “Phil, I know what happened last night is probably still bothering you, but I think it’s over now. I don’t think that guy’s coming back. I think he had his fun with us, and he’s not coming back.”

“I know,” Phil said and he gave her a peck on the cheek, and then on the lips. “Sorry I overreacted a little. Thanks for understanding.”

“I was scared, too. Who wouldn’t be?”

Phil gave her a tight smile and looked at the shopping bags on the end of the bed. “So what did you get today?” It seemed like he was trying to change the subject.

And that was fine with her. She pulled the items out of the bags: a pair of black slacks, two tops, and a pair of sandals.

Just then the phone rang. Phil walked over to the bedside table and picked up the cordless phone without even looking at the little screen to see who was calling. “Hello?”

Phil stood there, listening, scrunching his face in confusion. “Hello? Who is this? Is anyone there?”

“Just hang up,” Cathy told him.

Phil didn’t hang up. He listened to the phone with an intense focus now, as if someone was talking to him.

Cathy watched him, suddenly concerned. “Is someone there?”

Phil didn’t answer her. He hurried over to his briefcase on top of the antique desk in the corner of their bedroom. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a leather-bound notebook and a pen.

“Is someone there?” Phil yelled into the phone. “Answer me.”

Chills ran up and down Cathy’s arms as she watched Phil pull the phone away from his ear as if he’d just heard something offensive.

“What?” Cathy asked him.

“He hung up.”

He, Cathy thought. A wrong number and Phil automatically assumed it was their stalker in the pickup truck.

Phil pushed the SELECT button on the phone to scroll back to find the number that had just called, ready to jot down that number onto a page in his notebook. “I’m giving this number to the police.”

“Phil . . . I’m not so sure a wrong number is really a lead in this case.”

He stopped and stared at her.

She realized how sarcastic what she’d just said must’ve sounded. She tried her best to keep her sarcasm down to a dull roar most of the time, but sometimes it just slipped out.

He looked back at the phone, his face scrunched up in confusion.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The number’s restricted,” he said. He closed his notebook in defeat.

“It’s just a wrong number,” she said. “That’s all.” She’d softened her voice, trying to make up for her earlier tone.

Phil stuffed his notebook back into his briefcase. “You’re right,” he said.

SEVEN

Cathy

Cathy really wanted to do some touchups on her paintings for the upcoming art show, but she was wiped out from her day of shopping with Megan, and she wanted to spend some time with Phil. She rented a movie on the TV. The lights were off in the living room, the only lights coming from the kitchen.

Phil was already on his third drink of the night.

She wasn’t happy about that, but she didn’t say anything.

“Megan doesn’t want to watch the movie?” Phil asked.

“She’s skyping with Arianna,” Cathy told him. Megan was at the age where she didn’t want to do a lot of things with them now. She was becoming more independent, beginning to pull away from them, in a hurry to become an adult. And that was probably part of the reason she wanted to go out to the movies with no parents on Tuesday night, to prove her maturity.

Phil just nodded and took another sip of his drink. The clinking ice cubes were beginning to annoy her a little.

“You know,” Cathy said after Phil set his drink down on the coaster, “Megan really wants to go to the movies on Tuesday with Arianna.”

He nodded. “I know. We’ll talk about it.”

“I’m trying to talk about it right now.”

Phil was quiet for a moment. “I just . . . I don’t know . . .”

She sighed. “Why don’t you know?”

He stared at her. “I think you know the answer to that.”

“You’re worried about that guy coming back?”

Phil didn’t answer.

“He’s not coming back. It’s over. We can get back to our normal lives now.” She hoped he was picking up on her hint about his drinking.

Phil was still quiet.

“We can’t punish Megan just because we’re scared,” Cathy said in a low voice.

That seemed to hurt Phil a little. “I know,” he said. “I guess it’ll be alright if she goes with Arianna.”

Cathy snuggled up closer to her husband. “She’s going to be okay, Phil.”

“I know,” he said, giving her a kiss.

The movie was beginning to start. Phil got up and took his nearly empty drink to the kitchen with him to make another one.

Phil had given in about Megan, but Cathy knew something was still bothering him. Of course she knew part of it was the man in the pickup truck, but she couldn’t help thinking that there was something else on his mind.

Dolores.

She pushed that thought away.

“I’ll go see if Megan wants to watch the movie with us,” Phil said on his way to the kitchen.

“I already asked her,” Cathy told him.

Phil turned around and looked at her with his empty glass in his hand. “I feel like I should apologize to her for snapping at her last night.”

“She’s fine,” Cathy said. “She shouldn’t have gone outside by herself. She knows the rules.”

Phil still hesitated, frozen with indecision.

The movie was already beginning. “You want me to pause the movie?”

“No,” he said, and he went into the kitchen. “I’ll just be a few seconds.”

Cathy paused the movie anyway. She watched the entrance to the kitchen, the soft yellowish light pouring out of the room. She heard Phil making his drink, the ice clinking in his glass. Then she heard him checking the door that led out to the garage. He opened it, probably turned on the light in the garage, checking to see if everything was okay. He’d even engaged the locks on the garage doors, something they hardly ever did unless they were going on a trip somewhere. He closed the door, then rattled the handle, making sure it was secure.

He came out of the kitchen and walked past the dining area to the sliding glass doors that led out to the pool and deck area in the backyard. He pulled the vertical blinds back a little and tested the sliding door to make sure it was locked. He had placed the security bar in place earlier. And he had locked the screen doors that led out from the pool area, and also locked both gates to their fenced-in backyard.

He came back into the living room.

“Making your rounds?” she asked, hoping it came off as a joke.

“Just checking,” he said as he went to the front door and made sure it was locked. He looked at the keypad alarm—the little display was green in the darkness. He walked over to the windows that looked out onto the front porch, a couch they hardly ever used sat a few feet in front of the windows. He peeked out through the blinds, staring outside for a moment, the fresh drink in his hand.

“You going to be okay in the morning?” she asked. “You’ve had a lot to drink. You might feel a little rough.”

He came back to the couch and sat down beside her. “I’ll be fine,” he said, sipping his drink then setting it on the coaster next to Cathy’s bowl of popcorn.

Cathy started the movie again.

EIGHT

Phil

Monday

Phil did indeed feel rough the next morning as Cathy had predicted. He’d had a little too much to drink, and Cathy had pointed that out to him again this morning. And now he had a thumper of a headache that was pulsating at the back of his head and traveling down his neck. Even though he knew it wasn’t true, it felt like his veins were bulging in his head, throbbing with each pulse.

He arrived at his office, which was at the end of a strip plaza of other medical offices. His receptionist, Renee, was already seated behind the window in the wall that separated the lobby from her receptionist area and the rest of the office. The waiting room was neat as usual, kept tidy by Renee. The magazines were fanned out on two tables next to the chairs, the brochures and pamphlets organized in the cubbies on the wall, the TV turned on, airing a local all-news channel.

“Morning, Renee,” Phil said as he entered the receptionist area through the door from the hall.

“Morning, Dr. Stanton.”

“How was your weekend?”

She shrugged. “Boring.”

Wish I could say the same, Phil thought. He made a cup of coffee. Renee always had coffee ready for him. She was a dream receptionist, always on time, never complained, always thinking ahead. He’d really lucked out when she came to work for him. But she was in the middle of working her way through college, and she wouldn’t be here forever. After she was gone, the search for another receptionist would begin.

“You have that new patient I told you about,” Renee said, a folder already in her hand. “The man who insisted on seeing you.”

Phil vaguely remembered. “Was he a doctor referral?”

“No. Came in on his own. Name’s Carlos.”

The name rang a bell in Phil’s throbbing head. He was going to ask Renee why this guy sought him out specifically, but he didn’t feel much like talking right now, and as if Renee sensed that, she didn’t offer any additional information. It would all be in the folder, in the forms Carlos had filled out. Phil would glance at the papers before Carlos came in. “When is he scheduled?”

“One o’clock,” she told him. “Right after lunch.”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Renee. I’m going to get caught up on some paperwork.” He had almost an hour before the first patient of the day.

Phil entered his office which was down the short hall that led off of the door from the waiting room. The two doors on the left hand side down from the receptionist area led to two smaller offices that Phil was using as storage right now—he kept those doors locked and they had no nameplates on them. The only door on the right hand side led to the large office, the only office with windows that looked out onto the half-acre of tropical Florida vegetation at the end of their little medical plaza. The door at the end of the hall led out to a small employee parking area.

The other two offices could be home to other psychologists if Phil ever wanted to team up with others and split the lease and expenses, but for now he was doing well enough on his own.

He closed his office door and went straight to his desk which took up one end of the room. The walls behind his desk were lined with bookcases that held rows of books, knickknacks, a stereo system, and a small flat screen TV. He set his briefcase down on the little table behind his desk and turned on his desktop computer, letting it warm up.

He looked across his large office to the seating area on the other side of the room. An overstuffed couch and two recliners surrounded a low and massive coffee table. The plate-glass windows in the distance looked out onto the green wall of tropical plants. He found the view relaxing, and he hoped his patients did, too. Around the room there were other small tables and pieces of furniture with knickknacks, pottery, and houseplants on them. Cathy had decorated his office for him, utilizing her artist’s eye. She even hung a few of her paintings up, both of them subdued flowery pastels that had an almost abstract feel to them.

Yes, he was able to relax a little now that he was back at work. The guy who had followed them home in the pickup truck still bothered him, but being back in his office, back to the day-to-day routine, somehow made everything feel somewhat normal again, not the Twilight Zone episode that this weekend had been.

But the one thing that really bothered him now was that the nightmares had come back. It had been such a long time since he’d had them.

He didn’t want to think about that. Those nightmare images were from his old days—he’d changed so much since then; he was a completely different person now. He believed that the mind was a powerful thing, and you could create the person you wanted to be if you tried hard enough.

Phil turned the stereo on behind him. It was already loaded up with a playlist of songs from the early 90’s, a lot of grunge rock. The songs might not seem relaxing to most (and he certainly didn’t play this music when his patients were in here), but they instantly brought Phil back to his college days, back to when he and Cathy had met.

He opened his folders and got to work.

• • •

The day flew by, and after a quick bite from the lunch he had packed for himself that morning, Renee was at his half-open door with a soft knock. “Dr. Stanton, your one o’clock is waiting in the lobby.”

“Thanks, Renee. You can send him in.”

Phil had looked over the forms Carlos filled out a few weeks ago. Carlos was here because of problems with anxiety and depression, the evil twins of the mental health world, seemingly diametrically opposed, but somehow linked together. At least half of his patients came to him with one or both of these conditions. Carlos wasn’t seeing another psychologist and had never seen one before. He had no primary doctor. He took no medications and seemed to be in good health. He was thirty-eight years old. This rudimentary information gave Phil a starting point when meeting a patient for the first time.

Moments later Renee was back, opening the door all the way. “Dr. Stanton, this is Carlos.” She let Carlos in and then left, closing the door softly.

Phil was already standing, already walking towards the new patient. He didn’t reach a hand out in greeting in case the patient had contact issues, and he didn’t crowd a new patient without knowing how extensive his or her anxiety was. He always let the patients make the first move, trying to make them feel comfortable right away.

But since Carlos had extended a hand, Phil felt obligated to shake it. Carlos had a firm handshake, way too firm, trying to crush Phil’s hand. But Phil passed that off as some kind of defense mechanism, Carlos’ way of compensating for feeling vulnerable in this situation. Most patients felt vulnerable coming to see him, especially at first when they were encouraged to open up and reveal their deepest secrets.

Carlos was Phil’s height of five foot eleven, and probably around the same weight, but Carlos was put together more solidly, made up of more wiry muscle and harder edges than Phil was. The man looked strong, and he’d already showed off that strength with his handshake.

Phil gestured at the seating area. “Please, take any seat you want.”

Carlos didn’t respond; he just walked towards the seating area. Phil didn’t have a “doctor’s chair,” and he let his patients select the couch or one of the chairs. No couch for Carlos, he sat down in the chair closer to the windows.

Something bothered Phil about Carlos, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe it was Carlos’ overly strong handshake, or the way he sat down in the chair, or maybe it was just his posture and confident demeanor. Carlos didn’t seem like someone who was anxious or depressed. Of course he could be suppressing those feelings in public. Carlos sat rigidly in the chair, somehow relaxed but tense at the same time. His small dark eyes darted around, taking the whole office in with a few glances. His dark curly hair was cropped close, almost buzzed short. He seemed like he’d spent time in the military, or in some other institution of forced orderliness—like prison.

“Thanks for seeing me so quickly,” Carlos said.

Phil nodded. “Of course.” He scolded himself inwardly for feeling uneasy around Carlos; he was sure it was the lingering effects from this crazy weekend—and his hangover probably wasn’t helping—but he needed to get a hold of himself and focus on his patient.

“I don’t really know what to say,” Carlos said.

“Let’s just talk a little bit,” Phil said. He sat in the chair across from Carlos, his leg crossed casually over the other, his leather-bound notebook on his lap. But he kept the notebook closed for now. “This is just the first session. Let’s not let it get too formal. We’ll just talk a little, get to know each other.”

“Dr. Phil Stanton,” Carlos said like he was rolling Phil’s name around on his tongue. “Dr. Phil. Do you get a lot of teasing about that?”

A bad joke from Carlos, possibly a mean-spirited joke. Maybe another means of Carlos trying to retain control of the situation.

“Maybe behind my back,” Phil answered, trying to remain serious, showing Carlos that he was no pushover and that he wasn’t going to be intimidated by Carlos’ show of virility and dominance.

And then Phil smiled, even chuckling a little, showing Carlos that everything was still fine between them, no hostility yet, nothing to get riled about . . . just two men sharing a joke.

Carlos didn’t laugh. He was still glancing around, still sitting rigidly in his chair like a coiled spring. He was silent for a long moment.

“Would you like something to drink?” Phil asked. “Coffee or tea. A soft drink? A bottle of water?”

“No thanks.”

And that was it, Carlos didn’t say any more. His dark eyes were on Phil now, not looking away or glancing around at the office.

Phil tried to get the conversation going again. “Well, Carlos, are you from around here?”

“I’ve lived here in Florida for a while now.” A pause, and then: “I used to live in Oregon.”

“I lived in Oregon, too,” Phil said.

“Small world.” Clipped words from Carlos.

“Yeah,” Phil added, still struggling to keep the conversation going. “I grew up there.”

Carlos didn’t reply; he just stared at Phil.

“Beautiful place,” Phil said. “Rains a lot, but I miss it sometimes. I miss the mountains.”

Carlos still didn’t say anything.

Phil needed to change the subject, move things in a different direction. “What do you do for a living?” he asked even though he’d seen Carlos’ occupation on his forms.

“I’m in sales,” Carlos said in a flat tone.

For some reason Phil thought Carlos was lying. If Carlos was in sales, Phil wondered how good he was at it—he didn’t seem very friendly or talkative. In fact, a few things didn’t seem to be adding up already. Carlos was supposed to be here for anxiety and depression problems, but Phil hadn’t seen any classic signs of either one of those disorders. Of course Carlos might be guarded right now, acting different deliberately, perhaps embarrassed about being here and needing help. But something still felt off about Carlos.

“Sales,” Phil said, nodding like that was the most interesting thing in the world. “What kind of sales?”

Carlos let out a long sigh but didn’t answer the question.

He doesn’t want to answer because he doesn’t have an answer. Because he’s lying.

“What about hobbies?” Phil asked, pivoting to another subject. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”

“I like to kill people.”

NINE

Phil

For a moment it felt like Phil couldn’t breathe. His heart hammered in his chest. His head was beginning to throb again. His skin felt tingly and clammy. He shifted in his chair, trying to mask his shock. He was a professional, and he needed to act like one.

Carlos hunched forward in his chair, showing the first signs of interest and excitement now. His eyes were still right on Phil—never wavering. He looked mean, not like a coiled spring anymore, but more like a coiled snake now, a poisonous one that was ready to strike. “Can I ask you something, Dr. Phil?”

Phil didn’t overlook Carlos’ sarcastic use of his name. But he still needed to remain stoic and professional. He needed to find out why Carlos was testing him. “Sure, Carlos. Ask anything you want. That’s why you’re here. I want us to get everything out in the open.”

Carlos seemed even more excited, but also a little fidgety and nervous. He was nearly trembling with . . . what? Anticipation? “Have you ever seen anybody tortured?”

Phil was shocked again, but he sat very still, one leg still crossed over the other, his notebook still balanced on his lap. Even though he tried to show no outwards signs of it, he was starting to get a little scared. Yet he held Carlos’ gaze and answered his question. “No, I haven’t. Why would you ask that?”

Carlos closed his eyes for a moment. He exhaled a long, slow breath as he opened his eyes and looked right at Phil. “When I say torture, I mean the kind of torture that can be drawn out for days. It’s good if you can be someplace where you won’t be disturbed, where screams won’t be overheard.”

“Why are you telling me this, Carlos?”

“That’s just the physical torture,” Carlos continued like Phil hadn’t spoken. “Then there’s the mental torture, too. A victim waits, never knowing exactly when the pain will start. When the pain will stop. For instance, you could strap a man to a chair in a dark room. You could wheel a cart of tools into that room and leave it right next to the man so he could see every tool on that tray: the knives, the hammer and nails, the pliers, the blow torch. That man could wonder what each tool is going to be used for, and on which part of his body that tool is going to be used. He could wonder how long this will take. Will it take hours? Days? Weeks?”

Phil didn’t say anything. He let Carlos keep going while he tried to figure out why Carlos was saying all of this. Was Carlos dangerous? Was he just putting on a show? And then Phil began to get an icy feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach as a thought occurred to him. Was Carlos the man who had been driving the pickup truck Saturday night? Was he the one who had followed them home?

But that had happened only a few days ago. Carlos’ meeting had been set up a few weeks ago.

However, Renee had told Phil that Carlos had sought him out specifically as a psychologist. Maybe Carlos had been setting this up for a while, and he’d been waiting on that side road on Saturday night, knowing they were traveling down that road, waiting to pull out in front of them.

But why?

“And you don’t have to use any of those tools right away,” Carlos continued, getting more and more animated. “That’s the beauty of it. You could remain in the shadows just watching this bound and helpless man as he stares down at the tools, waiting and waiting. Soon the man would begin begging. Soon the man’s mind would begin to crack.” Carlos smiled at Phil—an evil little grin. “Have you ever tortured someone like that, Dr. Phil?”

“Of course not, Carlos. Why would you ask something like that?”

“Have you ever killed anyone, Dr. Phil?”

A flash of his recent nightmares ran through Phil’s mind—for a split second he saw Dolores. He saw her blood-spattered face, her mouth moving as she tried to tell him something.

Phil pushed those thoughts away. He had let Carlos’ little game go on too long now. He stood up. “No, I haven’t killed anyone,” he said.

“You sure about that?”

Phil glanced at the door and then looked back at Carlos. He wanted to keep an eye on Carlos. He wondered if he could make it to the door in time if he had to. Phil suddenly felt old and slow, he felt soft and weak compared to Carlos. He wondered if Carlos had a weapon on him, a knife or a gun.

“Please excuse me,” Phil said, trying to control the waver in his voice. “I need to talk to my receptionist for a moment.”

Phil expected Carlos to jump to his feet, protest, and then attack. But he remained seated, and he actually sank deeper into his chair, as if relaxed now. “Sure. Take your time, Dr. Phil.”

Phil walked to the door, afraid he would be attacked from behind. He felt that twitchy kind of fear as adrenaline coursed through him. He felt like a man hurrying through a thunderstorm, afraid of a lightning strike at any second.

But a few seconds later he was out in the hallway, and then he was in the receptionist area. Carlos hadn’t followed him.

Renee could tell right away that Phil was scared. “What’s wrong?”

Phil kept his voice low. “This patient is very disturbed.”

“Oh my God,” Renee whispered. Her eyes darted past Phil to the doorway that led out to the hall.

Phil was tempted to turn around and look, but Renee’s eyes hadn’t widened in fright.

“Did he try . . . I mean, did he do anything?” she asked.

“No. He’s just talking right now. Making threats. Acting aggressively. Just be ready to call the police if you hear me yelling.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go back there.”

That idea was tempting, but he needed to get Carlos out of his office. “I need to let him know that I can’t help him. I need to let him know that he needs to go somewhere else.”

But what Phil really needed to do was find out why Carlos was here, find out what he really wanted.

You know what he wants.

Phil pushed that voice away and looked at Renee. “I need you to come knock on my door in five minutes. Tell me that I have an urgent phone call. Then I’m going to pretend to take it and tell Carlos I have an emergency to attend to.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in five minutes. I’ll have my cell phone with me in case . . . you know, if I need to dial 911.”

“Good. Thanks, Renee. Sorry about this.”

She touched his forearm, her hand lingering there for a moment too long, her eyes locked on to his. “It’s not your fault. Just be careful.”

“I will.”

Phil walked back down the hall and entered his office, ready to confront Carlos and ask him why he was here.

Carlos wasn’t in his office.

Phil glanced around—there wasn’t anywhere for Carlos to hide. He was about to step back into the hall, but something on the coffee table in the seating area caught his eye—a white envelope that hadn’t been there before.

Carlos had left something behind.

Phil hurried over to the seating area and picked up the envelope. It was small, the size of a notecard. There was no writing on it. It wasn’t sealed. Phil opened it up. He pulled out the card inside and flipped it open. There was one sentence typed on the inside.

He went back to his desk and sat down, reading the sentence over and over again, trying to understand.

There was a soft knock at his door. Phil jumped up and slid the notecard into his pocket.

“Dr. Stanton?” Renee asked in a nervous voice. “You have an urgent phone call.” She entered his office and then stopped abruptly, looking around.

“He’s gone,” Phil said.

“How? I didn’t see him leave.”

“Must’ve gone out the back.”

Phil marched past Renee at the door, out into the hall. He headed for the back door. A moment later he was outside in the employee parking area.

Renee had followed Phil, but she stayed at the door, keeping it open.

Carlos wasn’t anywhere in the parking area. There was no white pickup truck.

Phil hurried over to his Lexus and checked it out. The windows weren’t shattered, the tires weren’t flattened, there were no scratches dug into the black paint. And there were no other white envelopes or notecards stuck underneath the windshield wipers. No, Carlos had already said what he wanted to say on the notecard in his pocket, everything reduced down to that one sentence typed on the card.

He walked back to Renee. “You didn’t see what kind of vehicle Carlos was driving, did you?”

“No. Sorry. Why?”

“No reason.”

Phil entered the building and Renee closed the door. “What am I supposed to do if he comes back?” she asked.

Phil wasn’t so sure Carlos was coming back—he had delivered his message. But that didn’t mean that Phil wouldn’t be seeing Carlos again very soon. “Just call the police,” he told her as he went back to his office.

He closed his office door and went to his desk, sitting down. He still had thirty minutes before his next patient, and he needed that time to calm down. He felt sick and shaky. He pulled the white notecard out and read the one sentence typed on it.

I know what you did to that girl.

Phil slid the notecard back into the envelope and then stuffed it into his briefcase on the little table next to his desk.

He wondered where Carlos had run to. Where was he going now?

And then he thought of Cathy. His heart froze for a second and he grabbed his cell phone.

Carlos wouldn’t go to my house, would he?

Phil dialed Cathy’s number—he had to make sure she was okay.

TEN

Cathy

Cathy was in her art studio—which was really the fourth bedroom in their home—when she heard the noise in the house.

Her art studio was also her office, but more studio than office. The office part consisted of a desk and a small bookcase in the corner with a computer, printer, and drawers full of papers and receipts. Down the wall from the desk was a drafting table, slanted to the perfect angle for Cathy. The table had a flexible lamp attached to it. Her easel and stool were in the middle of the room right now. She and Phil had removed the carpet when they’d moved in, replacing it with some cheap linoleum to make paint spills easier to clean up.

She was working on the last of the paintings for the art show in Sarasota that was coming up in two weeks. Six other completed paintings were already in frames and stacked against the wall. There were stacks of other paintings in various stages of completion. She did some original paintings for art shows, some for profit and some for charity. She also sold originals online through her website and at larger arts and crafts websites. She used to work for a design company in Tampa, but her dream had always been to strike out on her own, and that’s what she’d done. Though the bulk of her work was still design projects for customers (which she had a different website for), her true love was still painting.

She remembered taking the plunge on her own two years ago, when she was considering walking away from her job. Phil had just started his own practice and the bills were mounting, but Phil had built up a respectable patient list and a good reputation. And even though Phil did well right away, it was still scary for Cathy to quit her job and start her own business.

“Just do it,” Phil had told her. “This is your dream. Don’t put it off. You supported me while I chased my dream, now I want you to pursue yours.”

God, she got chills when she thought of that conversation, of how much Phil loved her, how much he put her and Megan ahead of himself so often.

Still, she’d been hesitant to do it. It wasn’t just fears about the money; she had the same fear that a lot of creative people had when they first showed their work to the world. Would people like it? Would they buy her designs and paintings? Would she get a lot of negative feedback?

“Just do it,” Phil kept telling her.

And finally she did. And now she was happy.

She touched up the painting of flowers with a splash of green on a leaf. She sat back, studying the painting for a moment.

A banging noise sounded from somewhere else in the house. She jumped, nearly dropping the paintbrush. She turned around and stared at the closed door of her studio.

The noise couldn’t be Megan—Cathy hadn’t even picked her up from school yet. Maybe Phil had come home early. But he never did that. And even if he had come home early, he would’ve called her.

Her cell phone was on the desk. She got up and checked it to make sure it was still on, making sure that she hadn’t somehow missed a call or a text. It was on. No calls or texts.

Taking her cell phone with her, Cathy crept out of her studio, walking down the hall past Megan’s bedroom and the other bedroom on this side of the house that they used for their treadmill and extra storage.

It was probably nothing. She hated feeling this way now, jumping at every little noise. Maybe the incident on Saturday night had gotten to her more than she realized.

Everything in the living room looked okay. The front door was still locked, the alarm still set. She entered the kitchen—it looked okay, too. Maybe the noise had come from the garage or even from outside.

When she got all the way into the kitchen, she let out a little scream, jumping as her cell phone rang in her hand.

“Shit,” she breathed out, looking down at her phone to see who was calling. It was Vince.

“Hey, Vince,” she said into the phone.

“Hi, Cathy. I was just calling to see how your masterpieces are coming along.”

“Almost finished. Just doing some touchups.”

“You okay? You sound a little out-of-breath.”

“Yeah. I was . . . uh . . . working out a little on the treadmill.”

“The treadmill and touching up your paintings? You are a multi-tasker.”

Vince laughed at his own joke.

Cathy forced a chuckle as she hurried across the living room to their bedroom. She checked around, even checking inside their walk-in closet. She felt a little braver with Vince on the phone with her.

“The paintings will be ready for the show,” she told him as she walked back to the kitchen, going to the door that led out to the garage. “I promise.”

“I know I can always count on you,” Vince said.

Cathy unlocked and opened the door to the garage. Her SUV (Phil called it her Soccer Mom Tank) was parked farther away, the empty space beside it reserved for Phil’s Lexus. Everything seemed fine out here. It didn’t look like a stack of boxes had fallen over or anything like that. She still wasn’t sure where the noise had come from. Maybe it had come from outside.

“Well, I should let you get back to work,” Vince said as Cathy went back into the kitchen. “How are Phil and Megan doing?”

Cathy locked the door to the garage and then left the kitchen. She walked past the formal dining area to the family room. She approached the vertical blinds that covered the sliding glass doors that led out to the pool.

“They’re doing great.”

“That’s good. Can’t wait to see you at the show.”

“Looking forward to it,” Cathy said as she pulled the blinds apart and froze for a second—someone was out there by the pool.

“You sure you’re okay?” Vince asked.

Cathy let out a breath, trying not to breathe too heavily into the phone. It was just the pool guy skimming the pool. He was dressed in a stained white polo shirt and khaki shorts. He had a baseball cap pulled down low. A new guy. It seemed like they had a new pool guy every month.

“Yeah,” she said quietly checking to make sure the sliding glass doors were still locked. She didn’t want the pool guy seeing her check the doors, but he never looked her way. She realized that he had wires coming from earbuds—probably listening to music or talking to someone on his phone while he worked. “I’m fine.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Cathy let the blinds fall back in place as quietly as she could and went back to the kitchen. She breathed out a sigh of relief. She didn’t know what that noise had been, but it must’ve been the pool guy outside. Maybe he had dropped something.

She jumped again when the phone rang in her hand. It was Phil.

“Hey,” she said into the phone. “Is everything okay?”

“Uh . . . yeah,” Phil answered. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because you usually don’t call me during the day.”

Phil was quiet for a few seconds. “Yeah, I’m fine. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason.”

But Phil sounded strange; he sounded nervous.

“I was just working on the paintings,” Cathy told him. “Doing some touchups. Vince just called. Impatient and nervous as usual. He was trying to act like it was a casual call, but he was really double checking to make sure I’m going to have them done in time.”

“Okay,” Phil said. He sounded a little better now. “I’ll be home around six.” He paused. She could tell that he wanted to ask her something. “Could you check the doors?” he finally asked. “Make sure they’re all locked.”

“I just did,” she told him. “Everything’s locked. Alarm is on.” She wasn’t going to tease him about still being nervous after what she’d just gone through herself, scared from a noise outside and checking every room.

“Okay. Sorry . . . I’m just still—”

“I know. Me too, a little.”

“I’ll be home around six,” he said.

“You just said that.”

“Yeah, I know. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Cathy hung up and stood there for a moment in the kitchen. “God, he’s making me paranoid,” she said.

ELEVEN

Phil

Cathy had dinner ready as soon as Phil got home. All three of them sat at the table, all of them quiet for a moment as they ate.

“So,” Megan said, drawing the word out to soooo. “Have you guys thought about it?”

“About what, sweetie?” Cathy asked.

“About going out with Arianna tomorrow night. No parents. And I wanted to stay the night.”

Phil glanced at Cathy. He already knew how she felt about it.

“It’s for my birthday,” Megan said like she had to remind them.

This was going against Phil’s gut instincts right now, but how could he say no to his daughter? She would be with Arianna’s mom the whole time, except for the hour and a half that she would be at the theater. Nothing was going to happen. He had to let her go. “It’s okay with me,” Phil finally said. “If it’s okay with you.” He looked at Cathy.

Megan practically did a victory dance; she knew she had it in the bag now. She looked at Cathy, a scream of triumph slowly building in her throat, jittery in her chair.

“It’s fine with me,” Cathy said, making it official.

Megan jumped up and attacked Cathy with a hug. Then she ran around the table to give Phil a hug.

“You just be careful,” Phil said. “You stay right there at the movies after Arianna’s mom drops you off, no wandering around.”

“No, Dad. We wouldn’t do that.”

“Promise me.”

“Of course I promise.”

“And take your cell phone with you,” Cathy said.

Did Megan go anywhere without her cell phone? Phil wanted to say, but didn’t.

“And make sure it’s turned on the whole time,” Cathy added.

“Mom, you’re not supposed to have your phone on when the movie’s playing.”

“Well, text me when you get there, and then text me again as soon as the movie’s over.”

“I will.”

The doorbell rang.

They all froze.

“Who’s that?” Cathy asked.

“Wait here,” Phil said as he got to his feet, a knot of fear fluttering in his stomach now. He hurried to the living room, staring at the front door as he approached it.

But instead of going to the front door, he went to the windows just beyond the couch and peeked out through the blinds. This felt a little like the dream he’d had yesterday morning, and he almost expected to see a white pickup truck parked out there in the street. He almost expected to see the door handle start to jiggle, the deadbolt lock begin to turn.

There was no pickup truck parked outside. Instead, there was a dark gray sedan.

Phil shifted his eyes to the man standing at their front door. The man had backed away almost like he knew he was being observed from the window. He was pretty tall, somewhat thin, maybe Phil’s age, but with thinning blond hair and pale skin. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie, and he had sunglasses on. He had a leather wallet open in his hand, revealing a badge and an ID. The man looked his way, and even though the man had sunglasses on, Phil knew the man was staring right at him.

Phil went to the door. “Who is it?” he called through the door.

“Mr. Stanton. I’m Detective Grady with the police department.”

“I . . . I didn’t call the police.”

“I’m following up on a call you made two nights ago. About a man who followed you home.”

Phil didn’t say anything. He could tell the detective was getting impatient with their conversation through the door.

“I’ll leave my business card under the welcome mat,” Detective Grady said. “This is just a follow-up. That’s all.”

Phil peeked out through the peephole in the door and watched the detective bend down and slide his business card underneath the mat. Then the detective turned and started walking away.

What the hell’s wrong with me?

Phil looked behind him and saw that Cathy and Megan were standing there, watching him. He felt a little foolish now, and he opened the door. “Detective Grady?”

The detective turned back around.

“Sorry,” Phil said. “We’re all still a little . . .”

“Perfectly understandable,” the detective said as he walked back up the steps onto the wide front porch.

Phil offered a hand in greeting as he stood in the open doorway. Detective Grady shook his hand, giving him a quick, two-pump handshake. The man’s hand was very dry.

“Come on inside,” Phil said, stepping back and opening the door wider. He looked at Cathy and Megan. “This is my wife Cathy. Our daughter Megan.”

“Evening,” Detective Grady said with a tight smile and a nod of his head. He had removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his suitcoat pocket. But he hadn’t come inside yet.

“This is Detective Grady,” Phil told Cathy and Megan, even though he was pretty sure they had heard the detective already say that. But he was nervous, and it felt like he couldn’t stop talking. “He stopped by for a follow-up.”

Megan smiled at the detective.

“Pleased to meet you, Detective Grady,” Cathy said, but she didn’t come forward to shake his hand.

The detective still remained outside on the front porch, just beyond the doorway, seemingly a little uncomfortable about entering their house, perhaps not wanting to draw this visit out any longer than necessary. In fact, to Phil, it seemed like the detective was already impatient to leave, like this was a bullshit part of his job that he was forced to do.

“Look, I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” Detective Grady said. “I just wanted to come by and make sure everything was okay.”

“Sure,” Phil said.

Cathy and Megan were already heading back to the dining room. Phil stepped out onto the front porch and closed the door.

“I’m sure it was pretty scary when that guy followed you home the other night,” Detective Grady said.

“Yes, it was.”

“All of you are doing okay now?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“And you haven’t seen that pickup truck since that night?”

“No.”

“Nothing else unusual?”

Phil thought of his session with Carlos today, and how Carlos said he liked to kill people. He thought of the note Carlos had left behind with its one-line warning. He thought of his suspicion that Carlos might be the driver of the pickup truck. He thought of his dreams about Dolores.

But Phil shook his head no. “Nope. Everything’s fine. My wife thinks the guy was trying to scare us. She thinks he’s had his fun, and now he’s going to leave us alone.”

Detective Grady just stared at Phil, unmoving and unblinking.

Phil started to feel even more nervous now. His skin was hot, like he was going to start sweating at any moment. He knew he was talking too much—like guilty people did—in danger of revealing too much. He could tell that Detective Grady was used to questioning people, used to watching people’s reactions, studying their mannerisms, reading between the lines of their words, picking up on subtle clues with an almost sixth sense.

The detective seemed a little rough around the edges; he had a five o’clock shadow, his suitcoat and shirt were a little rumpled. But Phil was suddenly sure that the man’s appearance was all an act. This man was shrewd. This man was good at his job. Phil couldn’t let himself fall for the laid-back act of an easy-going detective who was just concerned and only asking a few routine questions because of some bullshit procedure he had to follow. No, Phil could tell that there was some other reason the detective was here. The detective suspected something. He was a dog that had caught the scent of something that didn’t smell right, and he was the kind of dog that would follow that scent until he found the source of the stink.

“You haven’t remembered any other details about the pickup truck or the driver since that night, have you?” Detective Grady asked, already getting out his worn pocket-sized notebook and pen, like he assumed Phil had some information for him.

“Sorry. No.”

“You never saw that pickup truck before . . .” And here the detective made a show of glancing down at his notebook even though Phil was fairly sure the detective already had the information memorized. “Uh . . . before Saturday night?”

“I don’t think so,” Phil answered.

Detective Grady’s eyebrows shot up in mild surprise, his curiosity piqued.

“I mean, I couldn’t really be sure. There are a lot of older white pickup trucks driving around.” And it was the truth, wasn’t it? How could Phil be one hundred percent sure that he’d never seen that particular truck before? Especially if Carlos was driving that truck, and especially if Carlos had been watching him for weeks now. But he wasn’t ready to tell the detective, or any other cop, anything about Carlos yet.

Detective Grady nodded. “Fair enough, I guess. Is there any reason someone would want to follow you home? Harass you for some reason?”

“No. Not that I know of.”

“You’re a psychiatrist, right?”

“Psychologist,” Phil corrected.

But you already know that.

Detective Grady nodded. “Sorry. I didn’t know there was a difference.”

Phil smiled. “Just a difference in pay,” he joked.

But Detective Grady didn’t smile. “So you’re a psychologist.” He over-enunciated the word just slightly. “And you wouldn’t have a patient, or a former patient, who might be . . . I don’t know—what’s the right word?—unbalanced enough to be angry with you for some reason?”

Phil felt a twinge of fear, his stomach lurching a little. But he tried not to let it show. “I suppose it could be possible.”

“And no one’s contacted you in any way? Threatened you at all in the last few months?”

Could he know about Carlos somehow?

“No,” Phil answered. “Is this leading somewhere?”

Detective Grady gave a slight shake of his head. “No. Just asking a few questions, that’s all.”

There was a moment of tense silence between them, and Phil felt that he had angered Detective Grady even though the man wasn’t showing it.

“Well, I just wanted to stop by and make sure everything was okay with you and your family. And I wanted to leave my card with you.” Grady pulled the card he had slid underneath the mat moments ago out from his pocket and handed it to Phil.

“Thanks,” Phil said as he took the card from Detective Grady. He glanced down at it. Pretty basic card. Police Department logo. Detective Charles Grady written in a somewhat fancy scrawl. His phone number and email address beneath that. “I appreciate you coming by.”

“No problem. If you think of anything else that you might want to tell me, then just let me know. Or if anything else happens, please don’t hesitate to call me. That’s my personal cell number on the card.”

“Of course.”

“It was very nice meeting your wife and daughter,” Detective Grady said with a smile.

But there was a malevolence in that smile, a subtle threat issued.

“Thank you,” Phil said. “Thanks again for coming by.”

The detective just nodded, and then turned and walked away. He cut across the front yard towards his sedan parked in the street, much like Officer Wells had done a few nights ago.

Phil watched the detective walk back to his car.

He knows something. Maybe not everything, but he knows something.

TWELVE

Cathy

Cathy watched as Phil paced in their bedroom. He was on his third drink, and he held the glass a little loosely in his hand as he walked back and forth.

“So he just came by to check on things?” Cathy asked, not really sure what Phil was so upset about. That seemed like a nice thing for the detective to do.

“Yeah,” Phil said.

“And you’re upset about that?” Cathy asked. She was ready for bed. It was eleven o’clock now, and she knew Phil needed to get to sleep soon. But he was still too wired to lie down right now.

Phil stopped pacing and looked at her. “I just feel like I’ve been grilled. You know those old movies where a detective questions the suspect in a dark room with a bright light in their face.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t like that.”

“I know, it’s just . . . it just felt like that. That detective, he made me feel like I was some sort of suspect, like I’d done something wrong. Why? Because I called the police after some guy follows us all the way home?”

“Come on,” she said, taking the nearly empty drink from his hand and setting it on the table. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight. Let’s try to relax and get to bed.” She moved behind him, rubbing his shoulders, trying to knead the tension out of him.

He was starting to breathe a little easier now, finally calming down.

She pecked him on the cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get so upset about it.”

“You have a right to express your feelings,” she told him. “Hey, isn’t that supposed to be your line?”

“Funny,” he said, turning around.

She kissed him on the lips, a little harder this time, moving closer, rubbing up against him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled as he pulled away. “I . . . I’m just not in the mood for that right now.”

Cathy nodded. She understood. She didn’t like it, but she understood.

• • •

Two hours later Cathy woke up as Phil turned over onto his side, facing away from her. He’d been snoring, and now he stopped for a moment.

She lay there for a moment, watching him sleep, suddenly wide awake now. She thought she might have been dreaming about something, but she couldn’t remember what it was. She tried to remember the dream, and she had almost drifted back to sleep when she heard Phil moaning softly.

She looked at Phil again in the darkness, watching him. His body was motionless, but he was still moaning lowly. It was a creepy sound, like he was on the verge of crying. She moved a little closer to him, thinking her movement might wake him up. She even propped herself up on one elbow.

She was about to wake him up. His moaning was so strange, a miserable and pathetic sound, and it was really starting to bother her. He must be having another nightmare. She couldn’t really remember Phil ever having nightmares before, at least none that he’d ever told her about, and especially not on a nightly basis like this. And she’d never heard him moan like this or talk in his sleep before these last few nights.

These nightmares had to have been triggered by the man following them home Saturday night. It had been pretty scary—she’d been freaked out about it—but she thought Phil would’ve been able to move past it by now; he made a living showing people how to move past their fears. She couldn’t help thinking that there was something more to these nightmares, but the entire picture was unclear because she felt like she was missing some pieces of the puzzle. She knew better than to ask Phil about the nightmares he’d been having; she knew he wouldn’t be open about his dreams. He would just spout off some psychiatric theory about the nature of dreams and subconsciousness and all of that.

But she still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something from her.

She’d been married to Phil for sixteen years now, been with him for almost twenty. She knew him (or at least she thought she did) as well as she knew herself. She trusted him.

Of course Emma probably used to feel the same way about her husband; sure that she could trust Sheldon with her life. Emma probably would’ve bet anything that Sheldon never would have been unfaithful to her. She probably never thought that he would have (or even could have) kept a secret like that from her.

God, all of that stuff with Emma was making her paranoid, drumming up suspicions about Phil. She was about to roll over and try to get back to sleep when Phil moaned again, even louder this time.

“Nooo,” Phil moaned, twitching a little in his sleep.

Cathy moved closer to Phil, right behind him now, peering over his shoulder as he talked in his sleep.

“Dolores . . . no . . . don’t go . . .”

There was that woman’s name again. She’d heard it clearly this time.

“No,” Phil yelled, sounding angry now.

This was beginning to scare her now. She touched Phil on the shoulder, nudging him a little.

He jumped awake.

She moved out of the way as he flipped over to look at her, swinging his arm around, almost hitting her.

“What?” Phil croaked. His eyes looked wild. “What’s wrong?”

“Uh . . . I think you were having a nightmare again.”

Phil rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, breathing heavily. “Sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I can go sleep on the couch if you want me to.”

“No, it’s alright.”

They were quiet for a moment. Cathy wanted to tell Phil that he’d been talking in his sleep again, that he had mentioned a woman’s name again. He’d said the name Dolores, begging her not to go. But she didn’t say any of that to him; instead she asked: “Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

Phil was quiet for a moment. “No,” he finally answered. “I can’t remember.”

She didn’t think that was the truth.

“You going to be able to fall back asleep?” he asked, his voice thick, sounding like he was on the verge of sleep. His eyes were closed.

“Yeah.”

And then Phil was out, already snoring lightly.

“Goodnight,” she said.

He jumped awake, but kept his eyes closed. “Goodnight.”

“I love you,” Cathy told him.

“Love you, too,” he mumbled.

A moment later he was asleep again.

THIRTEEN

Phil

Tuesday

The next morning Phil talked with Renee for a few moments as he made a cup of coffee. He took the folders she gave him and went down the hall to his office. He felt tired, like he hadn’t slept very soundly last night. He remembered Cathy waking him up from his nightmare—the same nightmare he’d been having since Saturday night, ever since that man (Carlos?) had followed them home. In the dream, he’d seen the girl’s blood-stained face, watched her struggle to tell him something . . . something important.

God, it had been so long since he’d had those dreams . . . those memories.

Cathy had told him before that he had talked in his sleep. He wondered if he’d been talking in his sleep last night. Cathy had asked him if he had remembered what he’d been dreaming about (he didn’t tell her about his dream—he couldn’t tell her), but she hadn’t said anything about him talking in his sleep. But maybe he should sleep on the couch for the next few nights. He could explain to her that he was sleeping on the couch because he didn’t want to keep waking her up.

Phil sat down at his desk, suddenly wearier than ever. He felt a little light-headed and weak, like he was coming down with the flu, which wouldn’t be a shock because of the stress he’d been under for the last few days.

Was it possible that the driver of the pickup truck and Carlos were two different people? Of course it could be possible, but it would be quite a coincidence. But coincidences happened all the time. What Phil had no doubt of was that Carlos knew about his past; Carlos had come here specifically about it, to bring him a message . . . and a threat.

All of Carlos’ talk about torturing and killing people could’ve been a bluff, but there was no denying that Carlos could be dangerous. The question was: What did Carlos want? Money? Revenge? Was he working for someone else?

And now this Detective Grady had shown up last night out of the blue. Another coincidence? Phil didn’t think so. The detective had said that he’d just been following up on the case. Yeah, right. Phil didn’t believe that for a second; he was sure that the detective had done some digging into his past and found a trail of crumbs to follow. And now that this detective was intrigued, he might keep pursuing things, keep questioning things, putting pieces together.

This was a nightmare now—a living nightmare.

Phil jumped when his cell phone rang.

Maybe Cathy was calling him.

But then he saw the word on the screen: RESTRICTED.

He let it ring two more times before answering it.

“Hello?”

No answer. Just silence on the phone.

“Hello? Who is this?”

But Phil already knew who it was.

There was still no response, only heavy breathing.

“Carlos? Is that you? Look, if you need to talk about something—”

“I think you need to talk about something, Dr. Phil.”

Phil sat rigidly in the chair at his desk, staring at the windows at the other end of his office, at the tropical plants beyond the glass. The trunks of palm and pine trees rose up from the mass of foliage, disappearing above the top of the windows. “What do you think I need to talk about?”

“I think you need to talk about what you did to that girl.”

Phil jumped to his feet, a sudden anger flaring inside of him. “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re trying to do—”

“I know all about it. I know everything.”

“If you call me again . . .” Phil let his words trail off, the threat empty.

Click. Carlos hung up.

“Son of bitch!” Phil yelled as he tossed his cell phone down onto his desk.

Phil heard a noise at his door, a soft knocking. Renee stood there, her eyes wide. He knew she’d heard him yelling into his phone. “Renee,” he said, clearing his throat a little.

“Uh, I just wanted to let you know that your nine o’clock called to reschedule. Do you want me to call the ten o’clock and see if she can come in earlier?”

“No,” Phil said, his voice a reasonable and professional tone again. “No, that’s okay. I’ve got some stuff I can do for an hour.”

“Sure,” Renee said. But she still looked a little shocked. She wasn’t dumb, and Phil was sure that she knew he’d been on the phone with Carlos. For a second he thought she was going to ask him if he was okay, if he needed anything. But she didn’t. She left without another word.

Phil hurried to the door once she was gone and closed it all the way. Locked it. He should’ve done that in the first place.

He went back to his desk and collapsed down into his chair, feeling miserable and helpless.

Then a thought occurred to him. He opened the drawer of folders, finding Carlos’ folder near the top. He pulled it out and opened it to the forms Carlos had filled out. All his information was there: address, phone number, the reason he’d come to see a psychologist (obviously a lie).

Phil grabbed his cell phone and dialed the number from the form, bracing himself to hear Carlos’ voice again.

One ring. Two rings . . .

“Murphy’s Bicycle Shop. Ken speaking.”

For a moment Phil couldn’t say anything.

“Murphy’s Bicycle Shop,” Ken said again with the slightest impatience in his voice. “Ken speaking.”

“Uh . . . yeah,” Phil muttered into the phone. “I’m sorry. I think I might have dialed the wrong number.”

“No problem,” Ken said. “You have a great day.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Phil hung up.

A bicycle shop?

Phil checked the number he’d dial on his phone against the one Carlos had written down on the forms to make sure he hadn’t misdialed the number, but they were the same. And Phil knew that Carlos had chosen the number to a bicycle shop for a specific reason.

Phil typed the address that Carlos had listed on his forms into a search engine on his computer. Seconds later he saw that the address was also Murphy’s Bicycle Shop on Edgewater Drive.

Did Carlos work there?

No, he wouldn’t be that sloppy.

No, this was a clue that he wanted Phil to figure out.

FOURTEEN

Cathy

Phil had gotten home a little after five o’clock. He went straight into the kitchen to mix a drink.

Cathy followed him, watching him. “Already?” she asked.

For a moment she thought Phil was going to snap at her like some raging alcoholic. But he didn’t argue, he didn’t even have some sarcastic comeback. He just stopped his preparations and started putting everything away.

“I’m just worried that it’s . . . it’s turning into a habit again,” she explained. Cathy had hoped that Phil might have begun to get a little worried about how much he’d started drinking lately, but it didn’t seem like it. So she had to say something.

“You’re right,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking . . .”

“I don’t want you to be mad at me,” she said.

“I’m not.” He smiled as if to prove it.

“I’m just worried that . . . you know . . .”

He knew. He came over and gave her a hug, a kiss, and then he let her go.

Cathy felt a little better. They didn’t usually argue very much, but these last few days (or had it been these last few weeks?) there seemed to be a tension between them.

“Megan’s so excited about going out tonight,” she said, trying to steer the subject somewhere else.

But instead of sharing her enthusiasm, a dark cloud seemed to pass over Phil’s expression. “Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that. I’m not so sure this is such a good idea.”

That tension was back in her body, along with a sudden anger. “Phil. You’re not going to change your mind now.” It wasn’t a question, but a command. “You already allowed her to go tonight, to spend the night at Arianna’s.”

“I know, but . . .”

Cathy tamped down that anger that had surged so suddenly inside of her, forcing herself to comfort her husband instead of challenging him. “She’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.”

Phil didn’t seem so sure. Something was still bothering him. He seemed ready to launch into a long explanation, like a lawyer about to plead his case to a jury.

But Cathy cut him off before he could get started. “I can’t believe you’re still that upset about what happened the other night.”

The expression of concern on Phil’s face turned darker. “What? Some nutjob follows us home, and I’m just supposed to get over it in the next few days?”

“Nutjob? Is that your professional opinion?” Cathy tried a joke, trying to ease the tension before it got out of control, before this disagreement blossomed into a full-blown argument only a few minutes before Arianna’s mother arrived to pick Megan up.

Phil walked away.

“Come on, Phil. I was just kidding.”

She followed him to their bedroom. “You can’t keep our daughter prisoner in our home just because you’re still (she wanted to say scared) upset about that guy following us home.” There—she’d just officially made it worse. God, why couldn’t she just stop talking right now?

“I’m not,” he snapped, whirling around on her in the middle of their bedroom, a flash of anger in his eyes that she never remembered seeing before. She even took a step back.

“I’m letting her go,” Phil continued in a softer voice. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea right now to let Megan and her friends go out by themselves. That’s all I was trying to say. She’s not responsible enough yet.”

“She needs a chance to prove herself.”

“She had a chance to prove herself last Saturday night. And she failed when she went outside.”

Now it was Cathy’s turn to be angry, Phil’s fury infecting her. “Fine. What do you want me to do? Call Arianna’s mother and let her know Megan can’t go tonight?”

“No,” Phil said, sighing. Frustrated. “I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

She watched as Phil’s anger seemed to melt away. “I’m sorry,” he said, sighing even more heavily this time. “You’re right. I’m still upset about what happened. I’m just being . . . being an overprotective father.”

Cathy’s heart melted a little, just like Phil’s anger had melted away. Those sudden storm clouds that had accumulated between the two of them were clearing up. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. But you have to trust her a little. We have to let her make a mistake here and there, but then let her grow. Let her experience life.”

Phil nodded. “I’m sorry. I just haven’t been myself lately.”

That was an understatement. But this time she bit back the words before they came out. Instead, she hugged him like he’d just hugged her in the kitchen, kissed him like he’d kissed her. But she still felt the tension inside of him.

• • •

Fifteen minutes later Arianna’s mother was at the front door. Her mini-van was parked in the street with the side door wide open. Another girl sat in the back seat, her attention on her cell phone. Arianna had come inside, running past them to Megan’s room to get her.

“You sure you’re going to be okay tonight?” Cathy asked Yvonne, Arianna’s mother. “They seem pretty hyped up.”

Yvonne nodded, smiling. “I’ll be fine. They’re no trouble at all. Arianna’s been looking forward to this night for a while.”

“Well, thanks for doing this,” Cathy said.

“Not a problem at all.”

Phil came to the door and stood right beside Cathy. Phil was tense again, the tension drifting off of him like heat from a radiator. He lurked there for a moment before beginning his interrogation. “Which movie theater are they going to?”

The question seemed to catch Yvonne off-guard a little. “Uh, the multiplex on Ridgewood Avenue. I can’t remember the name of it.”

“I know where it is,” Phil said. “What movie are they going to see?”

Arianna’s mother showed a tight smile, her eyes darting to Cathy.

Cathy looked at Phil, giving him a we-already-went-over-this look. “They’re going to see a movie called Night Terrors.”

Phil frowned. “Night Terrors?”

“We already talked about this, Phil. It’s a PG-13 movie.”

An awkward silence blanketed them for a moment, and then it was broken by nonstop chatter as Megan and Arianna came rushing up to them. Megan was wearing the new bright pink hoodie she’d just gotten on Sunday. She gave Phil a quick hug, and she gave Cathy a longer and harder hug. “See ya tomorrow.”

“Love you,” Cathy said.

“Love you, too.”

“Be careful,” Phil shouted at them as they were bouncing down the porch steps. “Remember what we talked about. Stay at the theater. No wandering off.”

“Yeeeesss, Dad,” Megan sang out, and then she and Arianna erupted with laughter as they raced down the lawn to the minivan.

“They’ll be fine,” Cathy said a little more forcefully to Phil than she had meant to. She looked at Yvonne who wasn’t doing a great job of hiding her discomfort.

“Well, I better get going,” Yvonne said, giving them a weak wave goodbye and hurrying away.

Cathy pulled Phil inside and closed the door, locking it. “Are you done grilling everyone, or do you want to call Megan’s cell phone and continue?”

“I wasn’t grilling anyone.”

Cathy didn’t bother responding.

Phil sighed, ready to apologize again. “Sorry. I’m just a little nervous these days.”

Ya think? But she was willing to let it go. She loved the fact that Phil was concerned about their daughter being out alone with her friends, but he was taking it a little too far. Still, it was sweet in a way.

Cathy moved closer to him. She kissed him. “I know you’re just worried about her.”

She pulled away and smiled at him. “We have some alone time now.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She knew what that meant: he wasn’t in the mood right now—he never seemed to be in the mood these days.

“Let’s check out that movie you wanted to watch,” he suggested.

• • •

An hour later they sat on the couch. Cathy had a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table and a bottle of water. Phil had popped open a can of Coke, sipping it, still abstaining from the alcohol, replacing that urge with a sugary beverage. But he seemed fidgety and tense.

Cathy felt a little bad about saying something about his drinking earlier and she thought she might give him her blessing to have one. It wasn’t that she forbid him to drink, she just didn’t want it to control his life again like it did when he was younger.

Phil’s cell phone in the kitchen rang.

He popped up to get it.

“Don’t answer it,” she said, half-joking, but she knew he had to take calls; it could be an emergency with one of his patients. She didn’t bother pausing the movie—she didn’t think he was watching it anyway.

Phil answered his phone in the kitchen. Cathy could hear him talking, but she couldn’t make out anything he was saying, almost like he was whispering. Then it seemed like he had moved deeper into the kitchen.

She put the movie on pause and tried to catch what he was saying. But she couldn’t even hear him anymore. She thought he might have gone out into the garage to talk.

Maybe a patient was calling Phil. On rare occasions, after Phil had met with a patient numerous times, he would give them his cell number in case they had an emergency. It didn’t happen often, but sometimes he’d get one of those phone calls.

Cathy was about to start the movie again, but then she froze when she heard the low, familiar sound of the garage door opening.

“Phil?”

She got up and raced into the kitchen, then into the garage. Phil was backing his Lexus out of the garage, the lights on, blinding her. He reversed down the driveway, the garage door already closing.

“What the . . .?”

Cathy ran back into the kitchen and grabbed the cordless phone. She dialed Phil’s number. It rang four times and then went to voicemail. She left a message: “Phil, where the hell are you going?”

She hung up, thought about calling him back, but she wanted to wait a moment. She wanted to calm down before she left a message on his voicemail that she would regret later.

Maybe there was some kind of an emergency with a patient. But he would’ve said something to her if that was the case. He wouldn’t have left without a word to her. And why wasn’t he answering his phone? Maybe he was still on the phone with the patient. Maybe someone was threatening to kill themselves and Phil was trying to help.

But it didn’t feel like that. No, this felt wrong. This felt bad.

FIFTEEN

Phil

Phil sped towards the movie theater on Ridgewood Avenue.

His cell phone rang again. He grabbed it, thinking it might be Carlos calling again.

It was Cathy.

He didn’t answer it. He couldn’t talk to her right now, couldn’t explain to her what was going on, couldn’t let her experience the terror he was feeling right now.

Oh God, please . . . don’t let anything happen to her.

The phone call from Carlos echoed in his mind. “Guess where I am right now?” Carlos had asked. And before Phil had a chance to say anything, Carlos answered his own question. “I’m at the movies.”

Phil’s heart sank in that moment, everything in the world around him going gray and inconsequential.

“There are a lot of pretty girls here,” Carlos had continued in his low, raspy voice. “But I’m looking at three of them right now. They’re about to go into the theater. No parents with them. Three little girls all by themselves. But one of them, she’s the prettiest. She’s wearing jeans and a bright pink hoodie.”

“Don’t you do anything!” Phil roared into the phone as soon as he got into his car and started it, the garage door already opening.

“I think I’m going to talk to her,” Carlos said.

“No! You leave her alone! You hear me, you son of a bitch!”

“You already know what I want from you,” Carlos whispered into the phone. “You know what I want you to do.”

And then he hung up.

Phil weaved in and out of traffic, cutting other vehicles off, running yellow lights, and then one red light. Thank God no cops had spotted him.

Ten minutes later Phil skidded to a stop in a parking spot. He jumped out of his car and raced towards the theater. He ran up the concrete steps and entered the lobby, racing past the ticket booth.

An older woman at the ticket booth yelled at him as he ran towards the wide hallway that led to the twelve theaters showing movies. Each film was advertised on an illuminated sign above the entryways to the theaters down the hall. And then he saw the sign for the movie Megan and her friends had gone to see—Night Terrors.

“Sir, you can’t go in there without a ticket!” the old lady yelled.

Phil ignored the woman, entering the theater even though the ticket lady was still somewhere behind him, demanding that he get a ticket.

The movie was playing, the sound booming. It was still pretty dark in there, but the light from the movie allowed him to see a little better. He looked for the three girls, looking for Megan’s pink hoodie.

“Megan,” he called out. “Megan, where are you?”

Then a terrible thought occurred to him. What if she was in a different movie? What if she hadn’t heeded his advice and she had left the theater? Sometimes kids made up a story about going to the movies when they had really planned to go somewhere else.

“Megan!”

“Hey, asshole!” a man yelled. “Sit down!”

Phil spotted Megan’s hoodie. Megan and her two friends were about five rows up from the front, a few seats away from the aisle. He could see Megan’s pale face as she turned around.

Thank God she was okay.

“Dad?” Megan said. “What are you doing here?”

Two rows back, the man was still yelling at Phil. “Hey, we’re trying to watch the movie. Why don’t you sit down, man?”

There was more grumbling from other people in the audience, more of them joining in with the man’s complaints, fueling the man to keep going.

Phil ignored the man, concentrating on Megan. “I’m sorry. We need to leave right now.”

Megan looked even paler now in the film’s harsh flickering light. “What is it? What’s wrong? Is Mom okay?”

For a moment Phil considered telling a lie—anything to get her out of here.

“Sit down!” the man yelled. He was closer now, maybe even out in the aisle.

“I don’t have time to explain,” Phil told Megan, ignoring the man behind him. “We just need to leave.” He glanced at Megan’s frightened friends. “Sorry, girls. We have a . . . a family emergency.”

“Is it Mom?” Megan seemed on the verge of tears now, about to get hysterical.

“Hey. What are you doing to those girls?” The man was right behind Phil now, and Phil could feel the eyes of the whole audience on him now. The man was so loud. “Why don’t you leave those girls alone, you pervert?”

Phil turned to face the man. He knew it wasn’t Carlos—he could tell by the man’s voice. But Carlos could be in this audience somewhere—he could be watching. “Mind your own business, please,” Phil told the man.

“Leave that girl alone,” the man warned.

“I don’t have time for this,” Phil said and turned back to Megan, grabbing her hand, trying to get her out of the seat more quickly. He might have grabbed her a little too hard, used a little too much force.

“Wait a minute,” Megan squealed.

The man yanked Phil back into the aisle.

Phil turned and pushed the man as the rage boiled over inside of him. “What the fuck’s your problem? Are you with him? Are you with Carlos? Did he get you to do this?”

The man scrunched his face in confusion. He was at least five inches taller than Phil and probably fifty pounds heavier.

The sea of faces in the audience, all of their faces changing underneath the flickering light from the film, watched Phil. He searched for Carlos in that sea of faces.

“That guy’s crazy!” someone shouted.

“Pervert,” a woman said.

Phil looked back at the man in front of him as his anger and fear boiled out of control. He pushed the man again without even realizing he was going to do it. “Get out of my way. I’m leaving with my—”

But he never finished his sentence. The man punched him. Phil’s legs failed him instantaneously. He was down on the nasty aisle floor before he even knew what had happened.

Megan screamed and stepped out into the aisle between Phil and the man. “Stop! He’s my dad!” She was crying now.

Phil got back to his feet, more in shock than pain right now . . . but the pain would come soon.

The ticket lady and a man in a white shirt and dark tie who must be a manager of some kind hurried down the aisle towards them. “That’s the guy,” the old lady said in her shrill, fire-alarm voice.

“We were just leaving,” Phil told them.

The man who punched Phil slipped away into the darkness, already back in his seat now.

“Do you know this man?” the manager asked Megan. He had a hopeful look in his eyes that this disruption to his usually boring night would be resolved quickly and without further incident.

“He’s my dad,” she told him. “We need to leave. There’s . . . there’s an emergency.”

The manager nodded and moved aside, and so did the ticket lady even though she still gave Phil a scowl.

“I’ll call you later,” Megan told her friends, and then she left with Phil.

Phil glanced back at the two girls. He saw their horrified expressions.

• • •

Phil and Megan were quiet for a moment as Phil drove out onto Ridgewood Avenue, heading home. Phil had already assured Megan that everything was okay with Cathy as soon as they were in the car, but he had wanted to wait until she was in the car so she wouldn’t make a scene and run back to her friends.

Now she was quiet as she ruminated over Phil’s words. “Then I’m sure you had a really good reason for ruining my birthday,” she said, not looking at him yet, staring out the windshield. She sounded so much like Cathy at that moment.

Phil kept both hands gripped on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry I ruined everything for you.”

Megan stared out the passenger window. It was like she didn’t even want to look in his direction right now.

“Did you see anyone suspicious tonight?” he asked her.

That got a look from her. “What do you mean?”

“Did you see a man watching you?”

“Dad . . .” Real fear now. “What’s going on?”

Phil sighed. He was going to have to tell her about Carlos now.

The cell phone rang.

Megan grabbed Phil’s phone from the center console before he could get to it.

“Megan, wait.”

“It’s Mom.”

Megan didn’t wait. She answered the phone. “Hi, Mom.” She listened for a moment. “I’m okay.” She listened for another moment. “I don’t know.” She looked at Phil and handed the phone to him. “She wants to know where we are.”

SIXTEEN

Cathy

Cathy entered their bedroom. Phil was sitting in the recliner in the corner. He had a drink in one hand and he held an icepack up to his jaw with the other. Apparently he’d broken his vow of abstinence and made a drink while she’d been in Megan’s bedroom, trying to calm her down. She wasn’t going to scold him about his drink right now—he probably needed it. Hell, she felt like she needed one, too.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked him. “Maybe we should go to the emergency room.”

“I’m fine.”

She came over to him, studying his face.

He removed the icepack so she could get a better look.

“It doesn’t look swollen,” she said. “Just a little red.”

“How’s Megan doing?” he asked.

“She’s a little freaked out.”

Phil swallowed a gulp from his drink.

“You asked her if someone was watching her in the movie theater. She thinks someone was trying to abduct her.”

Phil didn’t disagree with that.

“What’s going on, Phil? This guy who was watching her . . . you’re not talking about the guy in the pickup truck, are you?”

Phil took another sip.

“Phil, talk to me. No secrets, remember? I want to know what’s going on.”

He exhaled a deep sigh and set his icepack down on the carpet. “I had this new patient yesterday. Renee told me that he’d asked for me specifically and that it was an emergency. He wasn’t a referral from a doctor or another patient, but I told her to squeeze him in as soon as possible. And she scheduled him for yesterday at one o’clock.”

Cathy sat down on the edge of the bed, folding one leg up underneath her.

“He came in at one o’clock. His name was Carlos. He started saying some very strange things. Talking about killing and torturing people. Acting threateningly. I went out to warn Renee, let her know to be ready to call the police. When I got back to my office, Carlos was gone. He’d gone out through the back door to the parking area in the back.”

“God,” Cathy said. She was going to ask Phil why he hadn’t told her about this man before, but she knew Phil wasn’t allowed to talk about his patients with anyone else (even his wife) unless they became a danger to themselves or to others.

“Carlos called me today at the office. He was making more threats. I tried to talk to him, help him, but then he hung up. That’s the reason I was so edgy tonight about letting Megan go out by herself.”

“Well, if I would’ve known . . .” Cathy said, but she realized that Phil wasn’t allowed to tell her, and now she felt bad about her reaction earlier.

“And then he called tonight,” Phil continued.

“How did he get your cell phone number?” Cathy asked. Phil didn’t usually give it out to patients unless he knew them pretty well.

“I don’t know. But I think this guy’s been . . . following me for a while now. Stalking me.”

“But you don’t know who this guy is?”

He shook his head no. Looked away for a moment.

“What did he say tonight on the phone to you?”

Phil waited a moment before answering, like he was recalling the conversation. “He told me that he was at the movies. He told me there were three girls there without parents. But he told me that he was particularly interested in the girl with the pink hoodie.”

Cathy’s stomach twisted, and she suddenly felt nauseous with fear. And now she had to ask the next logical question. “Do you think this Carlos guy . . . you think he was the one that followed us home on Saturday night?”

He nodded slowly. “I think he was.”

“So he was there on that side road waiting for us that night.”

Again, Phil nodded.

“But if he already had your cell number, and already had an appointment with you, then he must’ve already known where we lived. Why follow us home?”

Cathy remembered Phil driving into that subdivision that night, almost colliding with other cars in the process. They thought they had lost the pickup truck, and they had. But then he had appeared right behind them when they’d gotten to their street. Now it made sense—the driver had known all along where they lived. He might have even known that Megan was at home by herself that night. He could’ve come here anytime he wanted to instead of following them. Cathy felt another wave of nausea worm through her, even worse than the last one. She felt like she wanted to vomit, she could almost taste the bile in the back of her throat.

Phil didn’t answer her question right away. He took a sip from his drink. It almost seemed like he was stalling, trying to formulate an answer. “I don’t know why he followed us home that night,” he finally said. “Maybe toying with us. Playing games. Enjoying his power over us.”

“You said he was talking about killing people in your session with him. Torturing people.”

Phil nodded.

“You said he was acting threateningly.”

Phil nodded again.

“Did he threaten you? Did he threaten all of us?”

It seemed to take Phil another long moment before answering, and she couldn’t help thinking that he was choosing his words carefully, choosing what he wanted to reveal while he held other details back. “No, not directly. He just seemed to hint at things.”

“But this guy’s dangerous,” Cathy said as she got up to pace around the bedroom. She needed to move around now.

“He could be,” Phil said, giving his best psychologist answers, turning into Psychologist Phil. But she didn’t need Psychologist Phil right now—she needed Husband Phil.

“We need to call the police,” she said.

“I know. I’ve got the card that the detective left with me the other night. I’m going to call him now.” Phil got up and pulled his wallet out of his pants pocket. He found the detective’s card and went to the cordless phone, picked it up, and dialed the number. He left the bedroom.

Cathy felt a little guilty for undermining Phil’s trauma about the man in the pickup truck following them home a few nights ago. But at the same time, she couldn’t help feeling that Phil had kept certain details about all of this hidden from her even when he knew how dangerous this had become. She couldn’t help feeling that he was still holding information back from her, that he knew more about this situation than he was letting on. She hated feeling so suspicious at this moment, but she couldn’t help it.

She went out to the living room as Phil entered the kitchen—he was still on the phone. She needed to do something; she needed to feel like she was doing something to protect her family. She went to the sliding glass doors that led out to the pool, checked them for the third time tonight. Still locked. She went to the front door and checked the alarm. Still on. She checked the front door. Still locked. Peeked out the windows to the front yard. No one out there.

Phil came back into the living room with the phone in his hand, but it was down by his side now. “Detective Grady said he’s on his way over.”

SEVENTEEN

Phil

The doorbell rang.

Phil answered the door and Detective Grady stood there.

“Detective Grady, thanks for coming by so quickly.”

“Sure.”

“You want to come inside?” Phil held the door open a little wider.

Cathy was waiting on the couch, the TV on but the sound turned down low.

The detective’s face was impassive, but he had a small smile with no humor in it. “I think it might be better if we talk outside for a minute.”

Phil felt his stomach sink, but he stepped outside and closed the door. He had Carlos’ folder in his hands, copies made inside for the detective. Grady had glanced down at the folder in Phil’s hand, but hadn’t asked about it yet.

The air was humid outside, still hot even though the sun had set hours ago. But at least the mosquitos weren’t too bad yet. Moths fluttered around the porch lights and there were clouds of them over the lighted areas of the front lawn.

Detective Grady stood very still. He had his little worn notebook in his hands, already flipped open, ready to jot down some notes. “How’s your daughter?”

“Megan’s fine.”

Detective Grady’s eyes shifted down to the folder in Phil’s hand.

“These are the papers that Carlos filled out.” He handed the folder to Detective Grady. “This is all of the information I’ve got on him.”

The detective accepted the folder, but he gave Phil a hard stare. “You should’ve told me about this guy before.”

When Phil had been on the phone with the detective earlier, he told him everything that had happened with Carlos so far, but he’d left out a few details like the notecard that Carlos had left behind—the same details he’d left out when talking to Cathy. “I couldn’t tell anybody about Carlos until he actually became a threat,” Phil said.

“Then you should’ve called me tonight as soon as you got that phone call from him,” Detective Grady said, continuing his scolding. “You should’ve at least called the police.”

“I know. I . . . I wasn’t thinking.” Phil realized how lame that sounded, how suspicious it might be that he never called the police when a man told him that he was watching his daughter.

“What now?” Phil asked, trying to change the subject. “Can you get this guy’s number even though it’s restricted?”

“Yeah. Write down your cell number and provider.”

“It’s on the inside flap of the folder.”

Detective Grady nodded. “I’ll get this guy’s number, but he’s probably using a throwaway phone.”

Phil thought that kind of stuff only happened in the movies, but he didn’t say anything.

“I’m gonna do some digging on this Carlos guy,” Detective Grady continued. “Might take a day or two. In the meantime, you three need to be careful. You might want to think about taking a few days off of work.”

Phil nodded in agreement. He’d already made plans to do that. “I’m going to go in tomorrow and arrange things with another doctor. My wife works from home. Megan is almost done with the school year. My wife picks her up and drops her off at school.”

The detective nodded. “Okay. Good. Just keep your doors and windows locked. Keep your alarm system on all the time.”

“We will.”

Detective Grady was about to leave, but he turned back around and stared at Phil, it was a hard stare. “You’re absolutely sure you don’t have any idea why this guy might want to harass you?”

Phil felt a stab of fear. “No. I believe Carlos is disturbed. He needs more help than I can give him.”

Detective Grady stared at Phil for another long moment, and then he nodded. “I’ll keep digging.” It seemed like a threat. “I’ll call you soon. Maybe by tomorrow. Let you know what I found.”

“Thank you.”

The detective left and Phil went back inside.

EIGHTEEN

Cathy

Cathy woke up later in the night. Phil was tossing and turning beside her in bed. He was talking in his sleep again, having another nightmare.

He was calling out the woman’s name again.

She was about to wake him up, but he sat bolt-upright, his eyes wide with fear, stifling a scream.

“Phil . . .”

For a moment he didn’t seem to know where he was.

“Phil,” she said again, her voice a little sharper.

“Yeah,” he answered in a half whisper/half croak. He licked his lips like his mouth was dry.

“You okay?”

“Another . . . just a bad dream.”

He’d been about to say another bad dream. “Phil, you’ve been having these nightmares every night now.”

“I’ll be okay.” He sat there for a moment, swallowing hard. “I need to get something to drink.”

“I’ll get it for you,” she said, stopping him before he could get out of bed. “Just lay back down.”

He plopped back down, rolling over onto his side.

“What were you dreaming about?” she asked as she got up, figuring it was worth a shot, figuring maybe he would tell her this time.

He was silent for a moment, thinking and planning out his answer. “I don’t . . . I don’t remember.”

It was a lie. She was sure of it. For a second she considered challenging him on it, but she would save it for later.

Cathy walked out to the living room. They kept the light on over the stove in the kitchen now in case Megan needed to get up in the middle of the night, and that light was enough to see by even out here in the living room.

Before going to the kitchen, Cathy did one of Phil’s numbers and checked the front door, making sure it was locked. She also checked the alarm keypad, and then she opened the blinds a little and peeked out the front windows. No pickup truck out there in the street, parked in the night just beyond the reach of their front yard lights. The rest of this barren part of their neighborhood was lost in darkness. Being this far away from the other houses didn’t used to bother her at all; in fact, she loved the idea of no close neighbors—but these days it was creepy. Now she felt alone and vulnerable way out here by themselves. Well, except for Barbara’s house. She was the only other one foolish enough to buy at exactly the wrong time in this neighborhood like they had. She wondered if she should check in on Barbara, make sure she was okay. Maybe she would call her in the morning.

On the way to the kitchen, Cathy glanced down the hallway at Megan’s closed door—no strip of light underneath, so she must be asleep. She had school tomorrow, but Cathy figured it would be difficult for her to sleep tonight after what had happened at the movie theater.

Phil’s briefcase was sitting on a barstool underneath the bar. She stopped on her way around the bar and counter that separated the living room from the kitchen and looked at it for a moment. Usually he had a habit of bringing his briefcase to the bedroom because he didn’t want Megan going through it—but there it was. It seemed like a lot of his habits were changing lately, especially in the last few days after he’d started drinking again.

She looked back at their bedroom door to see if Phil was coming. She didn’t hear any noises from the darkness in there. Maybe Phil had already fallen back asleep.

In a moment of spontaneity, she grabbed Phil’s briefcase and brought it into the kitchen. She set it on the counter where the light was better. She opened it and rummaged through it, pulling out his leather-bound notebook and his calendar book.

She wasn’t sure why she was doing this. What was she looking for? A love letter from a girlfriend, from a girl named Dolores? A note with a little lipstick kiss at the bottom and a bunch of X’s and O’s? The scent of perfume?

But now that she had started snooping, she couldn’t stop. She was sure she wouldn’t find anything, but she had to be certain or she was going to keep driving herself crazy. She was just ruling out the obvious, that was all. That’s what she told herself anyway.

She flipped through his calendar book and froze for a moment, not totally understanding what she was seeing. Then she flipped back through the pages more slowly this time. There were numbers scrawled on all of the pages. They were all the same number—the number twenty-four. The numbers were drawn in different sizes, some with circles around them, some with squares around them, some drawn in blocky numbers, some scratched so hard into the paper that they almost cut through it. What was significant about the number twenty-four? Twenty-four hours? The twenty-fourth day of a month?

A noise sounded from the living room, a soft scuffling noise.

Cathy jumped, her eyes darting to the living room, then to their bedroom door beyond the dark living room. The bedroom door was still halfway open.

Was Phil getting up?

She shoved the calendar book back into his briefcase, then his larger leather-bound notebook. But as she was stuffing the notebook back into his bag, a small white envelope fell out from between the pages. She picked the envelope up and stared at it.

It’s nothing, she told herself.

She turned the envelope over in her hands. Blank, no writing of any kind on it. The envelope was unsealed and she looked inside; she saw a white notecard. With trembling hands (why was she shaking so badly?), she pulled the card out. It was a simple white card folded in half, and it was as blank as the envelope. She opened the card and read the once sentence that was typed inside.

She had to read the sentence two more times to truly understand what she was reading:

I know what you did to that girl.

What girl? Was someone accusing Phil of doing something to a girl? What was going on here?

There was another soft noise from their bedroom, and there was no mistaking it now—Phil was getting up. He was coming. She slipped the card back into the envelope, then stuffed it back into his notebook and shoved it into the briefcase. Of course Phil might realize that the envelope wasn’t in the same place that he’d tucked it into before, but she couldn’t help that. Besides, why should she be nervous about it? She should be angry that Phil had kept something like this from her. But still, something felt wrong here, something felt strange. She wanted to confront Phil, but she wanted to wait and think about this before she accused him of something.

Cathy brought the briefcase back to the bar and laid it back on the stool where she’d found it. She hurried back into the kitchen, to the refrigerator. She opened the door, grabbed a bottle of water, closed the door.

Phil was standing there, staring at her.

“You okay?” Phil asked her. He looked fully awake now, much more alert and somewhat concerned.

“Yeah. I got you some water.” She handed him the bottle.

Phil opened the bottle of water and took a sip, but his eyes were on her the whole time, never wavering, never darting to the stool where his briefcase was.

There was something strange about his eyes and the way he was staring at her. It was creeping her out, and she looked away, but she made sure she didn’t look at the stool with his briefcase on it.

“I think I’m going to take some time off,” Phil said. “Stay here with you and Megan until this thing with Carlos is . . . resolved.”

Cathy nodded. “Yeah. That sounds like a good idea.”

“I’m going to go in tomorrow though. Set things up. See if Doctor Braun can take over for me for a few days. Reschedule as many patients as I can.”

Phil was talking loud and Cathy was afraid he was going to wake Megan up. “Let’s get back to bed,” she told him.

He took another sip of the water, screwed the cap back on, and took the bottle with him to the bedroom. On his way there, he veered towards the front door.

“I already checked the door and alarm,” she told him.

They went back to their bedroom and crawled into bed.

Cathy lay there in the darkness. She wanted to ask Phil about all of the number twenty-fours she’d seen scrawled in his calendar book. She wanted to ask about the notecard she’d found in the envelope. She wanted to ask who this woman Dolores was that he kept dreaming about. She wanted to ask if Dolores was hurt. Had Phil hurt her? Was Dolores a girl and not a woman? Had Phil done something to a girl in his past?

But she didn’t ask those things. She still remembered the way Phil had stared at her earlier, like he’d known that she’d been snooping around in his briefcase. There was a malice in his eyes that she’d never seen before.

Different scenarios ran through her mind as she laid there, possible explanations for the notecard. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation for the notecard. Maybe Phil was dealing with an extremely unbalanced patient at the moment, one that believed his or her own fantasies, someone trapped in horrifying delusions. Maybe in this patient’s mind (and Cathy wondered if this unbalanced patient might possibly be named Dolores) she believed that Phil had done something to a girl.

But that didn’t make sense. It was Carlos who had gone to the movie theater to stalk Megan. Maybe Carlos had left the notecard for Phil. Maybe Carlos was the delusional one living in a fantasy world. Maybe he had left the notecard for Phil and those words didn’t mean anything—just the ramblings of an insane man.

But then she wondered if Carlos knew someone named Dolores. Cathy couldn’t help thinking that Dolores had something to do with Carlos, with that notecard, with Phil talking in his sleep, with whatever had been done to a girl, these pieces to a puzzle that she couldn’t see clearly yet. But then again, maybe not. Maybe she was just trying to force two things together that didn’t have anything to do with each other.

Suddenly, the idea of Phil cheating on her didn’t seem to be the worst thing that could happen to them. No, suddenly there were worse things.

“You were talking in your sleep again,” she told him, not even sure if he was still awake.

“I was?” he asked after a moment. He seemed guarded, even defensive. “What was I saying?”

“You were saying something about a girl.” There, she’d said it. Now she wanted to find out how much he would admit to, see how much of the truth he was going to tell.

“I don’t really remember dreaming,” Phil said, dismissing it.

“I think you might have been dreaming about a girl,” she said. She wanted to push a little more, wanting to gauge his reaction, wanting to use the same word she’d read on the notecard in his briefcase. “I think the girl might have been hurt . . . like someone hurt her. You said something about blood . . . or bleeding.”

Phil didn’t say anything for a long moment. “That’s weird,” he finally said. He was still tense. “I don’t remember dreaming anything like that.”

Another lie. Why was he lying so much to her lately?

“I didn’t say anything else?” he asked after another long moment.

“No, not really.” It was her turn to lie now. She waited to see if he would offer more.

But he didn’t. He fell asleep.

NINETEEN

Cathy

Wednesday

Cathy got up the next morning as Phil was getting ready for work. She kissed him goodbye when he was about to leave, a quick peck on the lips. Phil went into the garage, got into his car, and left. She stood at the door to the kitchen, watching the garage door close. Megan was still getting ready for school, and they needed to leave in the next fifteen minutes.

After dropping Megan off at school, Cathy decided she didn’t want to go back home. She needed to go to the supermarket. Maybe she should go now. But she wanted someone to talk to.

At a traffic light, she grabbed her phone and dialed Emma’s number. She knew it was a little early to be calling Emma, but maybe . . .

“Hey, Cathy,” Emma said, picking up on the second ring.

“Emma, I hope it’s not too early.”

“No, I’ve been up for a while now. Sheldon moved out last night. I didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

“Oh God, I’m sorry to hear that. If this isn’t a good time—”

“No. It’s fine. I can’t sleep right now anyway. What’s going on?”

Cathy drove down the street. She could feel tears threatening, and she didn’t trust herself to talk at that moment. She wasn’t usually a crier, but so many things in her life felt out of control right now, so surreal.

“You okay?” Emma finally asked.

“I think something’s wrong.”

An intake of breath from Emma. “What is it?”

“It’s Phil . . . I don’t know. He’s been acting strange lately. There’s this guy, one of his patients, he’s been harassing Phil, following him. Stalking him. Stalking us. He called and said he was watching Megan while she was at the movies with her friends last night.”

“Oh my God.”

Cathy knew she was talking too fast, jumbling things up, probably not making a lot of sense to Emma.

“Why don’t you come over?” Emma asked. “We’ll go get some breakfast or an early lunch.”

“I didn’t mean to call you out of the blue like this with my problems.”

“Please. You’ve listened to me enough.”

“You sure you’re not already doing something?”

“No plans. Come on over. I’ve got some coffee made.”

• • •

Cathy told Emma everything over two cups of coffee. Emma listened patiently and then grabbed her purse. “You hungry?” she asked.

Cathy followed Emma in her Soccer Mom Tank to a little café. Cathy wanted to drive because she needed to leave right after they ate. She really needed to stop at the grocery store, and she wanted to spend a few hours touching up some of her paintings before she had to pick Megan up from school.

At the café Cathy ordered hot tea and a croissant. Emma ordered breakfast and more coffee.

In her explanation to Emma, Cathy left out a few details like finding the number twenty-four scrawled over and over in Phil’s calendar book, and the notecard in the envelope with the haunting sentence inside. She didn’t know enough about those yet to speculate.

“I don’t want to think that he’s cheating on me,” Cathy said. “But he keeps mentioning that woman’s name every night in his sleep.”

“Did you check his phone? His computer?”

Cathy shook her head no.

“He has it password protected,” Emma said, nodding like she should’ve already figured that.

“No, I don’t think so. I mean not that I know of. He’s never tried to hide that kind of stuff from me.”

“Then you should at least check,” Emma said, but with less enthusiasm now that she found out his devices weren’t protected.

“I will. But it’s more than that. It’s more like a strange feeling I’m getting. Phil’s been acting so strange lately . . . so different.” How could she explain it to Emma without sounding crazy? Phil was actually beginning to frighten her a little. He was drinking more these last few days, he was quicker to anger, and there were those violent nightmares he’d been having about a bloody woman. Or was Dolores a girl? The note had read: I know what you did to that girl. And there was the way Phil looked at her these days, like he might want to hurt her—like the way he had looked at her last night beside the refrigerator when he’d gotten up for the bottle of water. She’d been about to tell him what she’d found in his briefcase . . . but the way he had looked at her at that moment had stopped her in her tracks. She never thought she would ever have a reason to be afraid of Phil. Her greater fear now was that there was something worse than infidelity going on, something dangerous, something to do with Phil and maybe Carlos, something about a girl. Was Dolores the girl that Phil had supposedly done something to? Was he dreaming about that every night now? Trying to push the memories away with alcohol? How could she tell her friend all of that?

Cathy started feeling nervous and antsy, flushing with heat now. Why had she even called Emma up? Because she didn’t want to go home? So Emma could talk her into believing that Phil was cheating on her? That wouldn’t be too difficult; Emma believed that all men were cheaters now.

“Yeah,” Emma said. “They get different like that when they’re cheating. I think it’s the guilt.”

Cathy nodded and sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, but I really need to get going.”

Emma looked disappointed. “You hardly touched your food.”

“I’ll take it home with me.”

“I know these things are difficult to talk about, but you need to talk about them. It really helps. You helped me so much when I needed it. I want to be there for you, too.” She touched Cathy’s hand.

“Thanks.”

The waitress came by with a takeout box for Cathy.

“I know it seems impossible, but you’ll get through this,” Emma said.

“I know,” Cathy said and forced a smile. “Thanks for letting me vent.”

“Oh God, sure. Like I said, you listened to my whining enough.” She looked suddenly embarrassed. “Not that I think you’re whining.”

“I know. I really need to get some work done on those paintings.”

“Oh yeah,” Emma said, a light dawning in her eyes. “That show is coming up soon. I’m going to be there this time. I promise.”

“Thanks.” Cathy got her purse out to get some money.

“No. This is my treat.”

“Thanks,” Cathy said. “Let me get the tip.” She laid a ten dollar bill down before Emma could object.

“Call me anytime,” Emma said.

“I will,” Cathy said and left.

TWENTY

Phil

Between his morning sessions, Phil turned on his cell phone and saw that he had a message from Detective Grady to call him back.

“I found some things out,” Detective Grady told Phil when he called him. “I’d like to share them with you.”

“Okay.” Phil braced himself.

“How about we meet somewhere? You can buy me lunch, and we’ll discuss some things.”

That sounded ominous to Phil. He suggested a diner close to his office and a time of twelve thirty.

“Sounds good,” Detective Grady said.

Phil hung up and wondered what kind of information the detective had found. Was it about Carlos? Detective Grady hadn’t specifically said anything about Carlos just then on the phone, just that he had found some things out. And now he wanted to discuss things in person. Phil couldn’t help feeling a little paranoid. He wondered if Detective Grady had dug into his past somehow.

He had one more patient to see, and then he would go to lunch.

• • •

Phil got to the diner a little after twelve. The place was usually busy, and he wanted to get a table by the window.

A bubbly waitress came up to the table. “How are you today?” She handed him a laminated menu. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Yes, please. Just some coffee and a glass of water for now. I’m still waiting for someone.”

“Of course. Coming right up.”

Five minutes later Phil watched Detective Grady enter the diner. He glanced around for a few seconds with his calculating eyes, those narrow eyes that didn’t seem to miss a thing, and then he was walking towards the table.

“Nice place,” Detective Grady said with no real compliment behind the words, just a hollow platitude.

“Yeah, it’s close to my office. I come here sometimes for lunch.”

The detective just shrugged—he didn’t really care.

“How are you doing?” Phil asked.

“Busy. How about you? You’re working today? I thought you would’ve been home with your wife . . .” He let his words trail off, but Phil could mentally finish the sentence: after everything that’s happened.

“I needed to come in today and see a few patients that were scheduled, make some arrangements to get another doctor to take over.”

Detective Grady nodded. He seemed suddenly bored by the details, perhaps sorry that he’d brought it up.

Phil got right to the point. “What did you find out?”

Detective Grady’s eyes never left Phil, like he was studying him, gauging every reaction. “It’s kind of strange,” he warned.

The waitress was back; she had a cup of coffee and a glass of water for Phil. “Here you go,” she said, setting the cups down in front of Phil. She turned to the detective. “What can I get you today?”

“Just coffee please. Black.”

The waitress almost seemed disappointed by the simplicity of his order. “Coming right up,” she said and was gone again.

Detective Grady’s attention was back on Phil. “I checked this Carlos guy out. I checked the info you gave me—his phone number and his address.”

Phil braced himself, knowing what was coming, but he didn’t want to seem like he knew.

“The number and address were for a local business.”

Again Phil felt like he was being studied, like he was being grilled. He thought of that cliché again of cops questioning a suspect in a small room with a bright light. “Oh?” he said, trying to sound surprised but afraid he wasn’t pulling it off. “Somewhere he works?”

The detective watched Phil for a long moment. “No. I checked on that. They’ve never heard of him.”

Phil nodded, not daring to say any more, not daring to slip up.

The waitress was back. “Coffee. Black.” She set the cup of coffee down in front of the detective. She looked at Phil. “You guys ready to order yet?”

Phil realized that he hadn’t even taken a sip of his coffee. “No thanks.”

“Nothing to eat?” the waitress asked, glancing at the detective.

“Nothing for me, either,” the detective said like he didn’t plan on being in the diner that long.

The waitress left, attending to a nearby table. Phil looked back at Detective Grady, wondering when he was going to name the place, but he seemed content to just wait to be asked.

“So,” Phil said. “Where is this place?”

“It’s a bicycle shop on Edgewood Drive. A place called Murphy’s.”

Phil shook his head a little. “Why would Carlos pick that place for his address and phone number?”

“That’s exactly what I was wondering,” Detective Grady said.

“Could be random,” Phil suggested. “Something he picked out of a phonebook or off the internet.”

“Could be,” the detective agreed. “But it could also mean something.”

“What do you think it means?”

Detective Grady shrugged. “I don’t know. You have any ideas?”

His question seemed more like an accusation.

Careful here . . . don’t get too paranoid.

“That’s it?” Phil asked. “That’s all you’ve found?”

“Afraid so. It’s a start.”

“Yes,” Phil agreed. But it wasn’t much of a start, he wanted to say.

Detective Grady kept staring like he had more to say. Phil thought the detective was going to ask him again if he was sure that he didn’t know why Carlos would be harassing him, why he had singled him out, but he didn’t. Maybe the question didn’t need to be asked again.

• • •

Ten minutes later, after some more small talk and a few sips of coffee, Phil told the detective that he needed to get back to work. He paid the bill and left a generous tip.

Outside the diner, Phil sat in his car for a moment, watching the detective drive away in his plain sedan. When he was sure Detective Grady was gone, Phil drove off in the other direction, but he wasn’t going back to work just yet; he didn’t really have many patients to see today, already rescheduling most of them.

He drove towards Edgewood Drive, to the bicycle shop. He was afraid the detective might follow him, or show up when Phil was there, but he could always tell the detective that he wanted to see the place in person.

Murphy’s Bicycle Shop was squeezed into a strip plaza off of the busy road among other small businesses: a floral shop, a discount appliance store, and a thrift shop at the other end.

He parked in the parking area closer to Edgewood Drive, backed into the space so he could watch the store. A line of hedges and a sidewalk separated the parking area from the street, all of it baking underneath the Florida sun. The humidity was building up and soon there would be a thunderstorm in the afternoon just like clockwork.

A lawn service crew was working at the property next door, a riding mower rumbling, weed trimmers and edgers buzzing. Phil watched the men work for a moment in the intense heat, wondering if he could do that kind of work all day, but he was pretty sure he couldn’t—he didn’t even mow his own lawn or take care of his own pool.

Phil turned his attention back to the plaza across the parking lot, the black asphalt shimmering in the heat. He watched the bicycle shop. There was no need for him to go inside, nothing for him to see in there or find out. It was the idea of the store that Carlos wanted to get across to him, a clue that only Phil would understand.

The sound of his cell phone roused him from his musings.

How long had he been sitting here? He needed to get back to work.

He had a strange suspicion that Detective Grady was calling him, spying on him from somewhere close by, wondering why he was sitting at the very address that Carlos had written down in his paperwork.

But it was Cathy calling.

“Hey, babe,” he said into the phone, about to say something else, but she cut him off.

“You need to come home right now.”

He sat up straighter in his seat and put his seatbelt on without even thinking about it. He’d left the engine running so he could keep the air conditioning blasting. “What is it? What’s wrong?” The terror in her voice was scaring him. His mind was already jumping to the worst possibilities. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” she told him.

“Is Megan alright?”

“Yes. She’s fine. Still in school.”

“Carlos isn’t there, is he?” Phil asked.

There was a hesitation from Cathy, and then: “No. It’s nothing like that.” Another pause. “Can you come home right now?” She seemed a little more relaxed now. Maybe she realized how badly she had frightened him.

“What is it?” he asked as he shifted into drive and pulled out of the parking space. “I need to get back to work.”

“It’s important,” she told him.

“What’s wrong? Do you want me to call Detective Grady? I can call him.”

“No. Don’t call him yet. Just come home. There’s something you need to see.”

Phil was about to ask her what it was that he needed to see, but Cathy had already hung up.

TWENTY-ONE

Cathy

After her breakfast with Emma, Cathy decided to stop at the supermarket on the way home. She didn’t really need a lot from the store, but she didn’t feel like going home just yet. She wandered the aisles of the store, spending more time than she needed to, studying different brands carefully, checking the quality of the fruits and vegetables. She wasn’t in any hurry to get home. Home seemed so complicated right now. At home, the questions that had been nagging at her for the last week would only return.

But she couldn’t stall anymore; she had some work to do on her paintings, touchups really. It was difficult as an artist to know exactly when to stop fiddling with a painting, when to finally sit back and declare the work officially completed. It was easy to keep adding a little here, changing a little there, but at some point an artist had to leave the work alone and move on to the next project. Of course she would always see little mistakes every time she saw the painting, details that she should’ve changed, slight improvements she could’ve made. This was a battle she always had with herself—nothing she created was ever perfect enough. It wasn’t easy to know the exact point when to let a piece of art go, but over the years it had gotten a little easier to tell. One thing that helped was the excitement of moving on to new works, new challenges. Yet she never let the draw of new work rush her touchups.

She was proud of these works that she had created for Vince’s show, but she was somewhat relieved that it was almost over. Fine arts were such a contrast to her work as a commercial artist and designer, where there were always tight deadlines and she often submitted work whether it was perfect or not. She still gave herself deadlines for her paintings, but they were more flexible. She wasn’t going to put that kind of pressure on herself—it was the reason she had left the commercial side of it to begin with.

She drove right home after the supermarket and put the groceries away. She opened a bottle of water and headed for her studio to get a little work done before she needed to pick Megan up from school. As soon as she entered her studio, she froze, the bottle of water nearly slipping out of her hand. All she could do was stare at her paintings. They were destroyed; all of them had words and numbers painted on them with bright red paint.

Red like blood, she thought.

She moved closer to the painting on the easel in the middle of the room, staring at the string of words that chilled her to the bone. The number twenty-four had been scrawled in brush all over the other paintings, but this painting had been reserved for this message: I know what you did to that girl.

Cathy was paralyzed with fear for a moment as other emotions coursed through her: confusion, anger, sadness. But the fear was taking over her shock now, guiding her with its trembling hand.

Someone was in the house. Someone had defaced her paintings, and he could still be here.

But she had disarmed the alarm when she’d come in from the garage.

Hadn’t she?

Could the intruder have gotten inside without setting the alarm off? Could the intruder know the code to their alarm system?

As she stood rooted to the spot, her mind spinning a hundred miles an hour, she listened for noises in the house, her senses suddenly hyperaware, her skin tingly with nervous energy, her mouth dry with fear.

She hurried over to the desk. She set the bottle of water down and grabbed the cordless phone. She turned the phone on, making sure there was a dial tone. It still worked. She was about to dial 911, but she stopped herself. Something was bothering her about this.

At least she felt better with the phone in her hand. She would’ve felt even better if she had some kind of weapon, but there wasn’t much to choose from in her studio/office. They didn’t have any guns in the house; both she and Phil were against the idea of guns, especially with Megan here. But now, at this moment, she wished she had a small handgun. The phone felt inadequate if she saw an intruder. Even if she could dial 911 in time, it wouldn’t stop that person from attacking her before the police arrived; it wouldn’t stop him from killing her. But if she had a gun, she could at least protect herself or scare the intruder off.

She tried to push those thoughts from her mind as she stepped into the hall. She went to the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the drawer, not the biggest one or the smallest one, but one that felt comfortable in her hand. Now, with the phone in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other, she felt a little better. She went to the garage door and checked the alarm system—it was still armed. She punched in the four digit code to disarm the alarm system. She opened the door and peeked out at the garage. Everything looked okay out there. She closed the door and locked the deadbolt, and then reactivated the alarm.

She left the kitchen and searched the rest of the house. A sense of déjà vu washed over her; this felt just like yesterday when she had searched the house after hearing a noise in the kitchen. She started her search in her bedroom at the other side of the house. She checked the walk-in closet, the bathroom, and even under the bed.

In the living room, she checked the front door. It was still locked. She went into the family room and checked the sliding glass door that led out to the pool area. The sliding glass door was still locked, the security bar still in place. She went down the hall and walked past the door to her studio, to the last small bedroom that they used for extra storage and for their treadmill. She entered the room, but there was nowhere for anyone to hide in here; the closet was stuffed with too many boxes.

Next, she checked Megan’s room. Megan would be upset if she knew her privacy was being invaded, but this was an emergency. Megan’s bedroom was messy, clothes on the bed and clean clothes still in a laundry basket that she hadn’t bothered to put away yet. Her closet was also packed too full to allow anyone to hide inside, and there was too much stuffed under the bed. The window was locked.

Cathy felt a little better after searching the entire house. Now that her fear had subsided some, she began to think about her vandalized paintings. She wanted to cry—all that work she had done on those paintings, and now they were ruined. She’d already begun wondering if she could somehow fix the damage, if she could scrape off the red paint and touch up those areas. Would she have time before the art show? If not, then she would have to make that gut-wrenching call to Vince and let him know what had happened: someone had broken into their home and ruined her paintings—they had destroyed nothing else, took nothing else, their sole purpose to deface her paintings.

It didn’t sound right.

She went back to her studio and stared at the words on the painting.

I know what you did to that girl.

Those were the same words typed on the notecard that she’d found in Phil’s briefcase. And the number twenty-four, that was the same number she’d seen scribbled over and over again on the pages of his calendar book.

Had Carlos done this? Had the man who’d been harassing Phil broken into their home to leave the same message on her paintings that he’d left on a notecard for her husband?

I know what you did to that girl. What girl? Dolores? What was done to her? Did someone hurt her? Kill her? And what did the number twenty-four have to do with it? Was the girl twenty-four years old? Was there a more sinister meaning for the number?

She knew she should call the police and report this. But what was she supposed to report? That someone broke into their home and ruined her paintings? She thought of the detective that Phil had talked to the other night, but she didn’t have his business card.

So she called Phil and told him to come home. She told him that he needed to see something. He had asked her what was wrong and if Carlos was there.

What a strange question for him to ask.

She told him that Carlos wasn’t there, but she didn’t want to tell him about the paintings over the phone.

Why?

Because the truth was that she wanted to see his reaction when he saw the paintings. A terrible theory was developing in her mind; one she didn’t want to believe might be real.

TWENTY-TWO

Phil

Phil raced home, speeding down their street of empty lots at this barren end of their neighborhood, their home standing by itself in the distance. He didn’t bother with the garage door. He parked in the driveway and rushed to the front door, the key to the door already in his hand.

He’d wondered all the way home why Cathy hadn’t told him what was wrong. He’d asked her if Carlos was there, but she’d said no. Of course Carlos could be there, and he could be making her say that. But she hadn’t sounded frightened. She’d sounded shaken up a little, maybe somewhat confused, but not terrified like a man was standing behind her with a knife at her throat.

Actually, she had sounded a little angry, but it seemed like she’d been trying to suppress it.

Maybe Carlos had been in their home and left some kind of message for them, maybe even a message specifically for Cathy. Maybe Carlos had left a voicemail on Cathy’s phone, or sent her an email. Or maybe he’d written a note on a card for her . . . like the card he’d left behind in his office. Maybe Carlos had told Cathy everything about his past, including the awful thing that had happened to Dolores. Maybe it was time for him to come clean to Cathy. God knew he didn’t want to, but if she knew, then he wanted to explain his side of it.

Cathy stood in the archway that led into the kitchen. He rushed towards her, standing in front of her, studying her. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. She looked a little frightened, but more numb than scared.

“What happened?” he asked her. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s in my studio.” She watched him as she said the words, like she was gauging his reaction.

“What’s in your studio?” His imagination was already running wild.

But Cathy didn’t answer him. She just turned and walked towards the hall that led to the bedrooms on that side of the house.

Phil followed her down the hall, his mind buzzing with questions. “Has someone been inside the house?”

Cathy still didn’t answer him; she just kept walking down the hall in front of him.

“Cathy, answer me,” he snapped at her, a sudden anger raging inside of him. Why was she acting like this? Playing games with him. He felt like grabbing her, stopping her, making her obey him.

Where had that anger come from? He felt instantly ashamed and out-of-control. He needed to get a hold of himself; he was letting all of this stress get to him.

Maybe what was in her studio wasn’t as bad as he was imagining. Cathy hadn’t called the police; she’d even told him not to call the police, so it couldn’t be that bad.

Cathy entered the small bedroom that she used as her studio, and Phil followed her inside.

He froze when he saw the painting on the easel in the middle of the room. He could feel Cathy’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the defaced painting.

It was Carlos; he knew it now. Carlos had been inside their home. He had done this. He had left the same message—the same warning—on his wife’s painting that he’d left on the notecard in his office. Oh God, this had gone too far now. Carlos was far more dangerous than he thought.

“The paint’s dry,” Cathy said.

Phil almost jumped at the sound of her voice. It felt like some substantial amount of time had passed while he’d been staring at the painting. He looked at her. “What do you mean?” he asked, not sure what the paint being dry had to do with anything.

“For the paint to be dry, those words had to have been written sometime between late last night and this morning,” she told him

Phil walked closer to the painting, staring at those words. “How did he get in?” he asked. He looked at Cathy. “Did you go somewhere today?”

“I dropped Megan off at school this morning,” she told him.

He waited; it seemed like she had more to say.

“Then I went to see Emma.”

“Right after you dropped Megan off?”

Cathy hesitated for just a moment like she didn’t want to answer his questions, like she wasn’t going to be the suspect here. “Yes. We had some coffee. Then I went to the supermarket and came back home.”

“When did you get back home?”

“About forty-five minutes ago. I put the food away, and then I was going to do some . . .” she stopped like her throat was closing up. “Some touchups,” she finished in a soft voice.

Oh God, Phil just remembered that Cathy had the art show coming up soon. “Oh Cathy,” he said. “Your show. I’m so sorry.”

Tears slipped from her eyes, but she didn’t break down all the way.

“Did you call the police?” he asked.

“And tell them what?” she asked, sniffling and wiping at her eyes, suddenly stoic again, on the verge of anger.

“Tell them that someone broke into our home,” Phil said.

“Broke in where? The alarm was still set when I got home. I checked all the doors and windows. Nothing was broken.”

Phil didn’t know what to say.

“And nothing was taken,” Cathy added. It seemed like she was building to some sort of conclusion.

“I’m going to call Detective Grady,” Phil said, reaching for his cell phone in the pouch on his belt. He left the studio. He didn’t want to stare at that painting any longer, he didn’t want to see those words written in the blood-red paint.

Cathy followed him down the hallway as he scrolled through his phone for Detective Grady’s phone number. “Why would this guy break in just to destroy my paintings?” she asked. “The paintings that I needed for Vince’s show.”

“I don’t know,” Phil told her. “The guy’s crazy. Who knows why he does anything? He needs help.”

They were in the kitchen now, and Cathy stood there watching him as he dialed Detective Grady’s phone number. He raised his phone up to his ear, listening.

“Detective Grady,” the detective said after the second ring.

“Hi. It’s Phil. I need you to come to our house. I think Carlos was in our home.”

TWENTY-THREE

Cathy

Detective Grady showed up thirty minutes later. Cathy followed the detective and her husband down the hallway to her studio.

After he was inside the room, the detective stared at the painting on the easel for several minutes, saying nothing. He walked over to the other paintings against the wall, the ones with the number twenty-four on them. He snapped a few photos with his phone.

“Who found these?” Detective Grady finally asked.

“I did,” Cathy answered.

“When?”

“A little over an hour ago.”

He looked at her, and then at Phil, like he was wondering what had taken them so long to call him. He looked at Cathy again. “Was someone in the house when you got home?”

Cathy explained how she met her friend for coffee and then went to the supermarket. She told him how she had searched the house after finding her paintings defaced.

“The alarm was still set?” Detective Grady asked. “You’re absolutely sure of that?”

“Yes,” Cathy answered.

“And all the doors and windows were locked? No forced entry of any kind?”

“No.”

Detective Grady sighed. He didn’t seem satisfied. He looked a little jittery, like he was suddenly restless. “I want to take a quick look around the house,” he said, obviously not trusting something like that to a civilian.

“Sure,” Cathy said.

Cathy and Phil followed the detective as he did a quick search of the windows, moving blinds and curtains aside. He stared out the sliding glass doors that led to the pool for a moment. After he was done, he still didn’t seem satisfied, like a few things were bothering him.

“Those words on the painting don’t mean anything to either one of you?” he asked.

Cathy didn’t look at Detective Grady as he asked the question; she watched her husband—watching him lie.

“No,” Phil said without hesitation—and damn if he wasn’t convincing. He didn’t look Cathy’s way at all.

Why was Phil lying to the detective? He had those same words written on a notecard in his briefcase, which she suddenly realized he hadn’t brought inside with him. There was some kind of secret he was keeping, something he was hiding from both the detective and from her. She thought for a moment about calling him on his lie, telling the detective about the notecard and the number twenty-fours scribbled in his calendar book. But she didn’t. She wanted to wait a moment; she wanted to give her husband the benefit of the doubt for a little longer. He had never lied to her as far as she knew, and now he was lying. She wanted to talk about it with him first before talking to the police.

And tonight they were going to talk. Yes, tonight Phil was going to tell her why that notecard was in his briefcase.

Some chilling thoughts had run through Cathy’s mind while she’d been waiting for Phil to come home. She wondered if Phil had typed that notecard to himself? What if he had scrawled that sentence and those numbers on her paintings sometime this morning without remembering it? It could be a possibility. Someone had vandalized her paintings without setting off their alarm, without breaking into their house. She wondered if something traumatic from Phil’s past could have been awakened in his mind from his recent nightmares. Or maybe a past trauma had been triggered when they’d been followed home last Saturday night. She knew that traumas could trigger all kinds of mental conditions, some of them temporary, some permanent. Some people got nightmares, some people walked in their sleep. Some people could go into fugue states—periods of time where they didn’t remember doing things.

Could Phil be doing all of this and not remembering some of it?

Of course there was always the possibility that Carlos had been in their home, that he had been stalking them for some time. There was always the possibility that Carlos was crazy, that he was inventing these fantasies about Phil hurting some girl, believing them to be real.

But then there was Phil’s nightmares, and the things he said in his sleep. It could just be a coincidence, but it seemed too much of one to her. She couldn’t help believing that some of these pieces fit together. She couldn’t help believing that Phil was still keeping secrets from her.

She wanted to talk to Phil about these things before she accused him of anything in front of Detective Grady. She wanted to give him a chance to explain himself. And that was going to happen tonight. She was only going to give him this one night.

“This guy’s getting bolder,” Detective Grady said. “He’s going to come back and do something else. Maybe even tonight.” He looked at Cathy, then at Phil. “I’m going to clear it with my captain so that I can stake out your place tonight. I’ll hide my car around the side of the garage.”

“You really think he’s going to show back up tonight?” Phil asked.

“I don’t want to take any chances. You two can stay somewhere else tonight.”

“I’m staying,” Cathy said, the words coming out before she even realized that she was going to say them.

“I wouldn’t recommend that—” Detective Grady began.

“I’m staying,” Cathy said again. “This is my house,” she added as if she needed an explanation. “This is my house, and I’m going to stay.”

For a moment, from the way Detective Grady was looking at her, she was sure he was going to order her to leave for the night, exercising some kind of martial law, but he softened a little. “You can stay if you want to. I wasn’t telling you that you had to leave, just recommending it.”

“Good,” Cathy said.

Detective Grady looked at Phil.

“I’m staying, too,” Phil said.

“Okay. Leave one of your vehicles in the driveway tonight. Leave your porch lights on. And leave one of the living room lights on. Make it obvious that you’re home.”

Phil nodded solemnly, then he looked at Cathy. “I don’t want Megan here tonight. Just in case . . .” he let his words trail off.

Cathy understood. She didn’t want Megan here tonight either. She wasn’t so sure this Carlos guy was really coming, but she wanted to be alone with Phil tonight so they could talk—really talk and get everything out in the open. She should’ve done this last night; she should’ve done this the moment she found that notecard in his briefcase.

“She can stay at Arianna’s tonight,” Phil said.

“Probably not,” Cathy told him.

Phil looked a little confused.

Had he forgotten about his little escapade at the movie theater already? “After what happened at the movie theater,” she reminded him.

Phil suddenly remembered, flushing a little.

“I can always ask Barbara to watch her,” Cathy said.

“She’s our only neighbor,” Phil explained to Detective Grady. “She lives on the next block. The only other house around here.”

Detective Grady nodded impatiently, like he didn’t really care. His thoughts already seemed to be on to something else. “Look, I’m not saying this guy is going to show up tonight.”

“We know,” Cathy said. “But we want to be ready. Thank you for coming back tonight.”

Detective Grady nodded. “Sure.” He had that impatient look in his eyes again. “I’ll be back in a few hours. You two just sit tight until I get back. And be careful.”

The detective was already walking to the front door.

Cathy looked at Phil. “I need to go get Megan. Let me use your car.”

Phil didn’t question her, but he looked a little surprised. He dug his keys out of his pants pocket.

“Cathy,” Phil said.

“I gotta go,” she told him and grabbed the keys out of his hand.

Outside, she caught up with Detective Grady just as he’d reached his sedan that was parked on the street in front of their home. He turned around, hearing her approach.

“I need to ask you something,” she told him.

He studied her for a moment, waiting for her to ask her question. But he seemed suddenly suspicious, like details about this whole thing were beginning to bother him.

“I know this might sound a little strange,” she said.

“What is it?” he asked, impatient again, but she could tell that his curiosity was piqued.

She glanced back at the house, almost expecting to see Phil standing in the doorway watching her. But he wasn’t there. He could be at the living room window—there would be no way she could tell if he was watching out the windows because of the daylight, but it was like she could feel him watching her.

Detective Grady noticed her glancing back at the house, like he was making a mental note of it.

“Is there any way . . .” Cathy said. “I mean, have you ever heard of somebody doing something, or a few things, and not remembering them?”

Detective Grady didn’t answer—he just stared at her.

“I mean like sleepwalking. Or maybe amnesia. Or a fugue state.”

“I’ve heard of things like that before,” Detective Grady said. “Never came across it myself.”

Cathy just nodded at him.

“Why are you asking me this? Seems more like your husband’s area of expertise.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

“No.” She wasn’t ready to tell the detective anything yet. She needed to talk to Phil first, give him a chance at explaining things. “Sorry,” she added. “I told you it was strange. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“No bother.”

Cathy left the detective and walked towards her husband’s car in the driveway. Phil had to have left his briefcase in his car—she just hoped that the notecard was still inside. She wanted the calendar book and the notecard with her when she confronted Phil.

TWENTY-FOUR

Cathy

Cathy drove Phil’s Lexus down the street after the detective left. She stopped at the stop sign for a moment. She was still in the empty part of their neighborhood, among the sea of vacant lots where one day, maybe far in the future, other homes would stand. There was certainly no danger of anyone driving up behind her as she waited at the stop sign; it could only be Barbara or Phil.

Phil’s briefcase was on the passenger seat; he’d been in such a hurry when he’d gotten home that he hadn’t brought it inside with him. She wondered if he’d thought of it now, maybe wondering why she’d asked to use his car instead of her Soccer Mom Tank.

She had no way of knowing if the envelope with the notecard was still inside his briefcase. Maybe he had gotten rid of it by now. But she was pretty sure that his calendar book would still be in there with the numbers scribbled inside of it.

She opened up the briefcase and pulled out the calendar book, flipping through the pages. For just a moment none of this felt real. She almost wanted to believe that the notecard she’d found the other night had been some kind of hallucination or a vivid dream. Could her husband be having some kind of massive mental breakdown? And if so, was it trauma caused by the man in the pickup truck following them home on Saturday night that trigged this breakdown? Yes, it had been scary, but had it been so scary that it had reduced Phil to this?

No, there had to be more . . . something she was missing.

Maybe Phil’s breakdown had started before Saturday night. Maybe there had been small cracks in the dam that she hadn’t even noticed, cracks that weakened his psyche little by little until an event happened that finally destroyed that dam beyond repair—an event like the man following them home.

She studied the number twenty-fours drawn all over the calendar pages more closely now that she had more time. They didn’t seem to correspond to any of the days on the calendar, some of the numbers overlapped several days, some of them had been drawn carefully inside the squares. It almost seemed like the calendar pages were only scratch paper for Phil to draw the numbers on, almost like he was doodling—but this was intense doodling, most of the numbers were traced over and over again so heavily that they’d been etched into the paper with the pen, almost cutting through the paper. Some of the numbers had circles around them, a few had been drawn in block numbers with shadowing, making them look three dimensional.

She closed the calendar book and searched his briefcase for the envelope she’d seen last night. She rummaged through the contents, but she couldn’t find the small envelope. Maybe Phil had taken the envelope out and hidden it, or maybe he had destroyed it.

But then she saw the envelope tucked away down in the corner of the briefcase, lying by itself like it had fallen out of his leather-bound notebook. She grabbed the envelope and opened it with trembling fingers, glancing at the rearview mirror to make sure no one was driving up behind her.

Like who? Phil?

She had this vision of Phil jumping into her SUV, since she had taken his car, and racing down the street to find her. She imagined that he knew somehow that she was going through his briefcase, that she was discovering his secrets. And what would he do if he caught her? Would he attack her? Hurt her?

Was she afraid of Phil now?

She pulled the plain notecard out of the envelope and read the one sentence typed on it. Because the sentence had been typed, there was no chance to compare handwriting samples with the words written on her paintings. She found one of Phil’s legal pads that he used to scribble patient notes down onto. She knew she shouldn’t be looking at these—she was probably breaking some kind of doctor/patient confidentiality, but she considered this an emergency. She needed to have a sample of his handwriting with her so she could compare it to the words on the painting when she got back home.

She stared at her husband’s handwriting, not sure if the lettering even resembled the lettering on her paintings; it was difficult to tell without seeing them side by side. She wondered if she would even be able to compare the two since Phil’s notes had been written in pen on a piece of paper, and the words on her painting had been painted with a brush on canvas. But maybe she could still see similarities if they were there—the slant of the letters, the curve of an e or an a. Wasn’t that how handwriting experts did it on TV cop shows?

She tore a page from the legal pad and folded it up neatly, stuffing it down into her purse. She picked up the notecard again with its one typed sentence: I know what you did to that girl.

After she stuffed the notecard back into the envelope and added that to her purse, she closed Phil’s briefcase. She was going to show the notecard to Phil tonight . . . soon. She was going to confront him about all of this. If he was having some kind of breakdown and not remembering some of the things he was doing, then maybe everything might click into place in his mind once he realized that she knew his secrets.

Maybe.

Of course, it could also be dangerous confronting him if he was really having mental problems. But Detective Grady was coming back tonight. She would wait until he was there before she had her confrontation with Phil. And she wanted to wait until Megan was out of the house.

She wasn’t going to be afraid of Phil, and she wasn’t going to be afraid of the truth no matter what it might be. Right now the need to know was more important than any dark secrets that might be hidden. If Phil was telling the truth, if there really was some crazy guy out there stalking him, and all of this about Carlos wasn’t pure fabrication, then they would deal with that together. But first she wanted to know everything; she wanted to know why he’d been hiding things from her, why he’d been calling out a woman’s name in his sleep.

“No more secrets,” she whispered. “You promised.”

She turned right and headed towards the cluster of homes in the distance, towards the “real” neighborhood, not the empty wasteland where they lived.

TWENTY-FIVE

Cathy

An hour later Cathy helped Megan get some clothes together for her stayover at Barbara’s house. Megan was already in a grumpy mood. She didn’t want to leave tonight, and she really didn’t want to stay the night at Barbara’s house even though it was only a few blocks down the street. Megan had already called Arianna and tried to get her to beg her mother to let her stay the night, but like Cathy had suspected, Arianna’s mother wasn’t going for that, possibly concerned about Phil showing up in the middle of the night, pounding on the door and demanding that Megan come back home.

But Megan didn’t argue with Cathy too much about staying at Barbara’s, especially after Cathy told her that Detective Grady was coming over, and the possibility of one of her father’s patients coming back tonight. Cathy told Megan that they believed Carlos might have broken into their home earlier (but she left out the part about the cryptic sentence painted across her painting).

“Mom,” Megan gasped, her eyes wide. “What about you?”

“We’ll be okay. Detective Grady will be here. You remember him. You met him the other night when he came by.”

Megan nodded. “Yeah, I remember.” But she still looked worried.

“Everything will be fine. Barbara’s real excited about you coming over.”

“Yeah. She’ll want to play cards or Yahtzee or something. She always does.”

“Just be nice. I don’t think she gets a lot of company. And don’t be on your phone all night.”

“I won’t,” Megan groaned as she searched through her closet even though she had already filled her backpack with night clothes and an outfit for school tomorrow.

“What’s wrong?” Cathy asked.

“I can’t find that new hoodie I got for my birthday. The pink one.”

“I don’t know how you can find anything in this disaster area.”

“Mom . . . I’m serious. I need it. Barbara keeps the AC on like fifty degrees or something. It’s like a refrigerator in there.”

“Just take a different hoodie. Your new one’s probably in the washer.”

“I didn’t put it in the washer.”

“Come on, Megan. Just take something else. We need to get going.”

Megan grabbed a gray hoodie and slipped it on. She stopped for a moment, staring at Cathy. “I’m still a little worried about you guys. Maybe all of us should go somewhere tonight. Like a motel or something.”

Cathy gave Megan a hug. “It’s going to be okay. We can’t run away every time someone threatens your father. Detective Grady will be here.” She pulled away from Megan. “Besides, this Carlos guy might not even show up tonight. Probably won’t show up.”

“I still don’t understand why we can’t all leave.”

“Because if we leave and Carlos doesn’t come, then what? We leave tomorrow night? And then the night after that? Eventually we’ll have to stay. Eventually we’ll have to face our problems.”

“So why are you sending me away?”

“We’re not sending you away. You’re right down the street.” How was she supposed to explain that she needed some time alone to talk with Phil, to find out the truth, to find out if all of this about Carlos was even real or not? “Just for tonight,” Cathy pleaded. “Barbara’s lonely and she would love some company. You’d be doing a good thing.”

Megan couldn’t help smiling. “I know.”

“Thank you,” Cathy said and kissed her daughter on the forehead.

“I just hope that detective catches this guy soon and all of this stops.”

“Me too, baby.”

• • •

Twenty-five minutes later Cathy and Megan were at Barbara’s front door. The horizon had turned dark with an approaching thunderstorm. Cathy thumbed the doorbell and a split second later the door opened up like Barbara had been waiting right on the other side of it.

“Hi, Ms. Flynn,” Megan said in a monotone voice with a forced smile.

Cathy gave her daughter a slight warning nudge.

“You know better than that,” Barbara told Megan. “Just call me Barbara. None of that Ms. Flynn stuff; it makes me feel old.”

Megan rolled her eyes at Cathy.

“Thank you so much for this on such short notice,” Cathy said. She’d almost uttered the phrase: watch Megan for us. But she had to bite back those words, knowing that Megan would have scoffed at the idea that she needed to be babysat. The best that Cathy could do was to make Megan feel like she was helping Barbara out more than Barbara was helping them. She’d made Megan promise not to say anything about the possibility of Carlos breaking into their home earlier in the day. She didn’t want to give this poor old woman anything to worry about.

“No problem at all,” Barbara said as she beamed. She opened the door wider and stepped back. “Come on in.”

Cathy followed Megan inside. There was the pleasant mixture of aromas in Barbara’s house, some kind of scented candles burning somewhere along with a faint cleanser smell. There was a deck of cards and a Yahtzee game already waiting on the coffee table in front of the couch.

She and Megan exchanged a secret smile.

“You be good,” Cathy said and hugged Megan, giving her a peck on the cheek.

“I will,” Megan said, pushing her away.

“Thanks again,” Cathy told Barbara as she walked to the front door.

“No problem at all. I love having Megan here.”

Cathy left, and she had to admit that Megan had been right about Barbara keeping the house very cold.

TWENTY-SIX

Cathy

Detective Grady showed up a little after seven o’clock. Phil hadn’t started on the alcohol yet, which Cathy was happy about. She didn’t want to nag Phil about his drinking tonight—and she wanted him sober when she talked to him later.

Before Detective Grady got there, Cathy compared the handwriting on the piece of paper she’d torn out of Phil’s legal pad to the words on her painting. She was relieved that the letters weren’t exactly the same. Some of the letters were very different. But she still had to consider that one sample of writing was on paper with a pen and the other was on canvas with a brush and paint. And then another disturbing thought came to her: What if Phil was someone completely different when he’d written that message across her painting? Kind of like a split personality.

Or maybe she needed to consider the fact that a man really had broken into their home today and left that message on her painting. But how had he gotten past the alarm system? And Phil must still know something about all of this if he’d written the number twenty-four over and over again in his calendar book, and because he’d hidden the envelope with the notecard in his briefcase. Was the note from Carlos, or had Phil typed that note himself in some kind of fugue state? And who was Dolores, the girl he kept calling out to in his sleep?

I know what you did to that girl.

Did Phil do something to a girl? To the girl he kept talking about in his sleep? Phil had never once been violent the entire time she’d known him, he had never raised a hand to her or Megan. Why would she think that he could’ve possibly done something terrible to a girl?

She was driving herself crazy with these thoughts. Megan was out of the house now, Detective Grady was here—parked beside the garage, and she had already compared Phil’s handwriting to the words on the painting . . . it was time to confront Phil now. Maybe she’d been hesitating for the last hour, afraid of finding out a terrible secret, afraid of everything in her marriage and her life changing in an instant. But it was time to do it.

First she would go and check on Detective Grady. She’d made some coffee and she filled one of Phil’s thermoses with it. She peeked in the bedroom at Phil; he was working on his laptop at the desk in the corner, looking something up. He had a spiral notebook and a pen on the desk in front of him. He seemed fidgety and agitated as he worked.

She didn’t say anything to him, but then he turned around as if he knew she was watching him.

“I’m going to take some coffee to Detective Grady,” she said, raising the thermos in her hand a little.

“Okay.”

Phil seemed like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. He turned back to his computer.

“I’ll be right back,” she told him.

Cathy left the bedroom and walked through the living room to the front door. She turned off the alarm system and opened the front door. She went out onto the porch and closed the front door almost all the way to keep the bugs out. The sun hadn’t set yet, and it was still light enough to see, but the approaching thunderstorm made it seem like night. The woods in the distance beyond the acres of house plots were just a black silhouette against the gray sky of churning clouds. Mosquitos and gnats swarmed around the front porch. Crickets and bullfrogs were already singing their night songs in the tall grasses.

She walked down the path through the front yard to the driveway, getting blasted by the wind. She hurried past the three garage doors to the corner. Grady had parked his dark sedan right next to the house in their grass, taking advantage of the house’s shadow when night came.

Detective Grady was behind the wheel of his car, his face lit up from his phone as he played with it. He looked up when Cathy was at the front of the car. He rolled down the window.

“You going to be okay out here?” She looked up at the sky. “There’s a bad storm coming.”

“I’ll be fine. At least it’s not that hot now.” He showed her a tight smile.

“Why don’t you come inside and wait?”

He seemed to consider the idea for a moment, but then he shook his head. “I need to be out here and ready if he comes by tonight.” He paused for a moment, smiling at her. “I’ll be okay. I swear.”

“I brought you some coffee,” she said. “If you don’t like coffee, I could bring you something else.”

“A cop never turns down coffee. I think I could use the jolt of caffeine.”

She thought the detective looked tired, or bored, or maybe even aggravated that he had to sit here for hours in his car instead of being home. She wondered if he was married or had any kids. She wondered if there was anyone waiting for him at home. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but a lot of people didn’t wear wedding rings nowadays. She thought about asking about his life, maybe making some small talk. But maybe it would come across as prying. Instead, she said nothing as she handed him the thermos.

“Thank you,” he said as he set the thermos on the passenger seat.

“You want anything to eat?” Cathy asked.

“No thanks. It’ll just make me tired.”

Cathy looked away, down the street towards the lights of Barbara’s home in the distance. “I hope Megan’s alright.”

Detective Grady didn’t say anything.

Cathy looked back at him. “So, you think this Carlos guy is really going to come back tonight?”

He shrugged, but he was staring intently at her.

“I just don’t understand how he got into our house without tripping the alarm.”

The detective shrugged again. “Might be a burglar alarm specialist. Might have even worked for a security company. Maybe he used an alarm jammer.”

“They have those?”

“You’d be surprised what they’ve got these days.” He stared at her hard, suddenly a little suspicious. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

For a moment she almost unleashed her suspicions about Phil onto Detective Grady—it would be so good to get those internalized ramblings out. But she decided not to. There might be plenty of time for that later. No, she needed to talk to Phil first, give him a chance to explain himself. She wanted to hear his side of the story first; he was her husband and she owed him that.

“I’ll leave you alone,” she finally said.

He just nodded. Maybe it was his way of saying: Thank God.

She went back to the corner of the garage and then around to the front of it, out of the detective’s sight now. She was about to walk back to the front door, but she stopped again and looked down the street at Barbara’s house in the distance, at the lights shining in the oncoming darkness. She thought about calling Megan’s cell phone, but she decided against it—she needed to talk to Phil first. No more distractions, no more hesitating, no more procrastinating.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Cathy

Cathy hurried back inside the house and shut the door. She turned the alarm system back on. The wind was really kicking up now, and lightning was flashing, but it hadn’t started raining yet. The house was dark even with a few of the kitchen lights on.

Phil wasn’t in the living room. He wasn’t in the kitchen, either. He must still be in the bedroom working on his laptop. She went to the kitchen and opened a drawer where she had stashed the calendar book and the notecard earlier. She took them with her to the bedroom.

She hesitated at the bedroom door. She could hear Phil doing something in the bedroom. It sounded like he was moving things around. She entered the room, but she didn’t see him. His laptop was still on the desk, the screen lit up, but he wasn’t there.

He was in their walk-in closet.

The door to their closet was closed almost all the way, but the light was on. She approached the closet door, listening for a moment. Phil was moving stuff around in there, and she thought she heard him whispering to himself.

“Phil,” she said.

“Yeah,” he called out.

“What are you doing in there?” She opened the door and saw Phil at the other end of the closet. He had some boxes and plastic tubs all over the floor, lids off, papers and envelopes everywhere. “What are you doing?”

“I’m looking for something. I . . . I need to find something.”

He looked at her and saw the calendar book and notecard in her hand. But he didn’t look surprised or shocked. There almost seemed to be a look of relief on his face.

“We need to talk about this,” she told him.

“Cathy, I can explain things.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want, an explanation.”

“I’ve been wondering how to tell you about everything.”

She thought he was going to walk towards her, but he remained by his piles of papers and manila envelopes.

“Did Carlos give you this note?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And he painted these same words on my painting?”

“Yes,” Phil answered again.

“But you know something about this, don’t you? You know what happened to this girl.”

A long moment, and then: “Yes.”

“Who’s Dolores?”

Phil didn’t answer, but she could see the recognition of the name in his eyes.

“You’ve been saying her name in your sleep the last few nights. You said something about blood, about her being hurt.”

“I can explain everything—”

“Did you do something to a girl?” Cathy blurted out. She could feel her body trembling now. “Did you do something to a girl named Dolores?”

“Yes.”

Cathy felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. Tears blurred her vision and she wiped at them.

Phil took a step towards her. She took a step backwards out of the closet doorway.

“Cathy, wait. Let me explain.”

She waited, clutching the calendar book and the notecard in her hand.

“I need to find something in here first,” Phil said. “And then I will explain everything. I promise.”

She felt sick to her stomach, and suddenly she didn’t want to know anything else. She didn’t want to know the details of whatever Phil had done. “There is no Carlos, is there?” she said more to herself than to Phil. Her worst fears were coming true now. “You’ve been doing all of this the whole time.”

“Cathy, wait. Let me find what I need, and then I’ll tell you everything. There’s just something . . . something I need to do first. I need to find a phone number and make a call.”

She shook her head no, backing up towards the bedroom door.

Phil had a strange and desperate look in his eyes, a look she’d never seen before. Who was this man? What was he trying to find in their closet? Was it something he’d hidden in there a long time ago? Something related to what had happened to Dolores? A piece of evidence? A weapon? Some kind of sick souvenir?

“What did you do?” she asked, her voice getting louder. It felt like she was getting light-headed and dizzy. “What did you do to Dolores?”

“I wanted to tell you so many times,” Phil said.

“Is . . . is she dead?”

Phil nodded. “Yes.”

Everything seemed like it was suddenly spinning. She wasn’t going to listen to this anymore. How could Phil have hurt some girl? She couldn’t stay there a second longer. She couldn’t listen to Phil anymore; she couldn’t even look at him.

She rushed out the bedroom door.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Phil

Phil almost chased after Cathy when she ran out of the bedroom. He figured she was running outside to tell Detective Grady that her husband was some kind of sick murderer.

And wasn’t it true . . . in a way?

He kept looking through the boxes and plastic tubs in the closet; he needed to find an old address book with a phone number in it, something he’d saved for decades. Someone he’d promised himself he would never call again—Travis.

He unstacked some more plastic tubs and cardboard boxes until he got down to the bottom one that was marked: Work Records. He opened this plastic tub and pulled out manila envelopes and folders, sifting through the papers until he found the right envelope. He opened it, dumped out the contents, and there it was—the old address book. There was also some old newspaper clippings in the manila envelope that the address book had been in, but he didn’t want to see those again.

He went out to the bedroom with the address book. He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up Travis’ numbers: a home number and a cell phone number. The odds that either of these numbers was still in service weren’t very good, but he had to try.

Earlier he’d been scouring the internet and social media sites, trying to find a trace of Travis. He should’ve done this days ago, but he hadn’t wanted to face it yet. He didn’t want to believe that it was true. But he didn’t have much luck finding information on his old friend—Travis Baker was a pretty common name. One thing he found though was a news article from Portland, Oregon about a man identified as Travis Baker who had been murdered a few months ago.

Could it be true? Had Travis been killed? There wasn’t a photo of the victim, but the age was right. The coincidence seemed too great right now for it not to be Travis. His childhood friend had been murdered, and Carlos was the killer. And now Carlos had traveled down here to Florida to do the same thing to him.

Phil tried the two phone numbers he had for Travis. One was disconnected and the other one was answered by an older lady who’d never heard of a man named Travis Baker.

He had one last chance; he had the phone number for Travis’ parents in the address book. He dialed the number for Ted and Sandra Baker.

Outside, thunder rumbled. He remembered vaguely hearing something on the radio about a bad thunderstorm moving through tonight. Maybe a storm would deter Carlos from coming tonight. Or maybe a storm would provide the perfect cover.

“Hello?” a woman said into the phone.

“Hi,” Phil said. “Is this Mrs. Baker?”

Hesitation on the other end for a split second.

Phil thought she’d hung up, but then the woman spoke, and he recognized her voice. And Phil swore that she recognized his voice as well. “Yes, this is Mrs. Baker. Who’s this?”

“It’s Phil. Phil Stanton. I don’t know if you remember me, but—”

“I remember you, Phil,” she said in an icy voice.

TWENTY-NINE

Cathy

Cathy hurried through the dark living room. Her mind was reeling. She was sick to her stomach.

She stopped and looked at the front door, then at the windows where the wood blinds were open. Even with the porch light on outside, she saw the flash of lightning in the night sky. And then ten seconds later thunder rumbled, shaking the house.

Her husband was a murderer. He’d murdered a girl named Dolores. He’d as much as admitted it. This was her worst fear come true, and now she didn’t know what to do. She’d been on her way to the front door, intending to march out there and tell Detective Grady what Phil had just confessed to.

Could she really do this? Could she turn her husband in to the cops?

The more she thought about it, the more she realized that Phil needed help. He’d done something terrible in his past . . . maybe more than once. And now he was having a breakdown, inventing these stories about someone named Carlos. Cathy wished now that she would’ve called Phil’s receptionist, Renee, and asked her if Phil had really seen a patient named Carlos. But of course Renee wouldn’t have given out confidential information like that, not even to her.

She didn’t want to get Phil into trouble, but he needed help. It was ironic—he was a psychologist who had helped so many people, but he wasn’t able to help himself. She really didn’t have a choice. She needed to get the police involved, get Detective Grady involved—it would help Phil in the long run.

And you’re scared of him now, her mind whispered.

It was true. Phil was different now, not the man she’d known and loved all these years. She remembered Emma telling her how she’d felt when she’d found out about her own husband’s dark secrets.

But Cathy’s husband’s secrets were darker . . . much darker.

Emma had said that her world had spun out of control after she’d found her husband cheating on her, she’d said that nothing felt real anymore to her. And that’s exactly how Cathy felt right now, like all of this was some kind of bad dream that she couldn’t wake up from. Phil, her husband all these years, was not the man she thought he was. What else had he been hiding?

No, she needed to do the right thing—she needed to help Phil.

She went to the front door and punched the four digit code into the keypad, and then opened the door and went outside. She expected Phil to storm outside after her, beg her not to tell Detective Grady.

But Phil wasn’t chasing after her.

She hurried through the wind with the calendar book (and the notecard stuffed inside) clutched in her hand. The smell of rain and ozone danced on the air.

She didn’t want to tell Detective Grady, but she had to. She couldn’t let him keep wasting his time here if there was no such person as Carlos. She would tell the detective everything, show him the proof she had, and then they would all talk. Phil would have to come clean about everything, and then they could figure things out from there. She swore to herself that she would find some way to help Phil.

Lightning flashed across the night sky, revealing nasty-looking thunderheads. The wind was blowing even harder now, the tall grasses in the vacant lots across the street whipping around wildly, all of them leaning the same way, like some Kansas prairie right before a tornado.

Thunder rumbled as Cathy hurried across the driveway to the corner of the house, and then around the garage to Detective Grady’s car.

His car was hidden in the shadow of the house, but there was enough light for her to see that the detective was slumped over behind the steering wheel.

“Detective Grady?” she said as she walked closer to the front of the car.

No answer. No movement.

Oh God, was he dead?

But how? When?

And then a chilling thought came to her. What if Carlos was real? What if he knew about Phil’s past and had been blackmailing him about it? What if he was already here?

She took another step towards the detective’s car. “Detective Grady,” she called out.

He still didn’t move.

She heard a noise from behind her. She turned around and saw a splash of light from the street. But the light wasn’t from the lightning in the sky, and the rumbling sound wasn’t from thunder. This light and noise were coming from the white pickup truck in the street.

THIRTY

Phil

Phil gripped the cordless phone harder in his hand, trying to keep his voice soft and conversational. “I know it’s been a long time, Mrs. Baker. I was trying to reach Travis. I have two phone numbers for him, but neither one is the right number.”

He heard a choked sob from Mrs. Baker and his stomach sank.

“Travis is . . . he’s dead,” Mrs. Baker finally said.

So the murdered man in the article he’d found on the internet had been the Travis Baker he knew, the Travis Baker that he’d grown up with in Oregon . . . his friend.

“Mrs. Baker, I’m so sorry,” Phil said.

There was a jostling noise on the phone and Phil thought she might be hanging up, maybe even throwing the phone across the room, but then a man’s voice came on the line. “Phil, it’s Ted.”

“Mr. Baker. I’m so sorry to hear about Travis.”

“We should’ve called you,” Mr. Baker said in a clipped and polite tone. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t have your phone number, but . . . we should’ve tried a little harder to find you.”

“I understand why you may not have wanted to call me,” Phil said as tears stung at his eyes, a lump of emotion forming in his throat.

An awkward silence hung between Phil and Mr. Baker for a moment. But Phil didn’t want to lose this call; he didn’t want to lose this chance to find out some information. “What happened to Travis?” he asked even though he’d read the vague articles on the internet.

“He was murdered,” Ted said. “Someone . . .” he tried to control his trembling voice. “Someone killed Travis. I don’t know why someone would do that to him.”

But that wasn’t really true, was it? Phil thought. There were some people—Dolores’s family members, for instance—who might have had every reason in the world to hurt Travis, to kill him, to exact revenge. And they would want to do the same thing to him now.

“How long ago did this happen?” Phil asked. Again, he already knew the answers, but he wanted to keep Ted talking.

Ted cleared his throat, regaining some control of his voice. “Uh, about two months ago. We just had the funeral last month. It took them a few weeks to . . . to examine his body for evidence.”

Phil was silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry we didn’t call you,” Ted said. “I know you and Travis were good friends when you two were younger.”

“Yes,” Phil agreed.

Phil wanted to ask a question, but he didn’t know how to word it. He was afraid of angering Mr. Baker, and Mrs. Baker if she was listening on another line. He knew they wouldn’t answer his calls again after tonight. But he needed to ask the question, so he blurted it out. “How exactly was Travis murdered?”

Silence on the phone.

“I mean,” Phil continued quickly. “Was he shot or stabbed? Strangled?” He almost let it slip that the news articles he’d read about Travis’ death had been vague, but he caught himself just in time.

“What kind of question is that?” Ted breathed out in shock.

“I know how it sounds,” Phil said. “I’m only asking because someone is after me. Someone’s been stalking my family.”

There was silence on the phone, and once again Phil thought they had hung up on him. But then he heard Ted breathe into the phone—a long, slow breath.

“He was . . . he was tortured,” Ted said in a low voice, muffled slightly like his mouth was close to the phone. A sob escaped him, and for a moment he couldn’t speak, but then he went on. “Travis was cut open. Gutted with a hunting knife.” Ted was crying harder now.

“Oh God,” Phil whispered.

“You satisfied now?” Ted asked. “Does that answer your question?”

“Listen, Mr. Baker, I think the same person who killed Travis is after me and my family now.”

“Then you’d better run.”

Click.

“Hello?” Phil asked, but no one was there.

Phil dialed the number back, but it went right to an answering machine.

From outside, Phil noticed a flash of light, but he knew instinctively that it wasn’t from the lightning. And then he heard that familiar rumbling sound that had woken him up the other night.

He darted to the window and looked out through the blinds at the street. The white pickup truck was parked there.

“Oh God,” Phil whispered.

THIRTY-ONE

Cathy

The pickup truck was there in the road; idling . . . waiting. Cathy couldn’t see the driver behind the windshield because of the headlights, and she couldn’t even see him when the lightning lit up the world for a second.

Carlos was real, and maybe he’d already been here earlier and killed the detective.

Cathy looked back at Detective Grady’s car. His eyes popped open as he snapped awake. He wasn’t dead—he’d just fallen asleep.

“Cathy!”

She turned back to the truck, but then she saw Phil running across the front yard towards her, his head whipping back and forth from the white pickup truck to her, and then back to the truck again.

Cathy heard the detective getting out of the car behind her, running towards the driveway.

The truck spun its tires, already in reverse now. It sped backwards down the street.

Detective Grady ran down the driveway, his gun in his hand and aimed at the truck, but it was already too far down the street now, its headlights turned off. The screech of the truck’s tires filled the night air as it turned around and then sped away.

The detective stopped in the middle of the driveway and dropped his arm with the gun back down to his side. He turned and looked at them, and Cathy saw the anger in his eyes. “I thought I told you two to stay inside.”

Cathy looked at Phil who was beside her now.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded.

Detective Grady marched back up the driveway, and for a moment Cathy thought he was going to yell at them again, but he went to his car. A few seconds later she heard him barking orders into his car radio, giving a description of the pickup truck.

Cathy looked back at Phil. “I’m sorry . . . I thought . . .”

“I know,” he said.

“What’s going on?” she asked in a low voice. “You said you would tell me everything.”

Phil didn’t say anything.

Detective Grady walked up to them. “I put out an APB on the pickup truck.”

Cathy looked at Phil, giving him a chance to explain. “Did you make your phone call?” she asked him.

“Yes.”

“And you’re going to tell me everything now?”

Phil nodded.

“Hey,” Detective Grady said as if they might have forgotten he was still standing there. “What’s going on?” His eyes darted down to the calendar book in Cathy’s hand. “What’s that?”

Cathy didn’t answer the detective; she looked at Phil, giving him a chance to explain.

Phil looked at the detective and sighed. “I think I know why Carlos is after me.”

Detective Grady stared at Phil for a long moment. “And?”

“Let’s go inside,” Phil said. “I’ll tell you two everything.”

THIRTY-TWO

Phil

Phil made himself a drink. He knew Cathy probably wouldn’t approve of him drinking right now, and Detective Grady probably wouldn’t be too fond of the idea either, but he really needed one right now. He felt shaky and scared. All of this was bigger than he thought, worse than he thought.

Cathy sat on the longer couch against the wall. Detective Grady sat in the middle of the other couch, the one closer to the front windows, the one they didn’t use too often. The house was still murky, but there was enough light coming from the kitchen and the dining room. Cathy and the detective were both hunched forward on the couches, both tense and ready to hear his explanation.

He took a sip from his drink at the counter and then brought it with him to the living room. He had already locked the front door, but he kept the alarm system turned off for now. Carlos wasn’t coming back now that he’d seen the detective.

Phil sat down on the couch beside Cathy. He took another sip from his drink before setting it down on a coaster on the coffee table right next to his calendar book.

“When I was a kid I didn’t have too many friends,” Phil said. “I wasn’t really a popular kid in high school. I didn’t play sports or hang out with the cool kids. But I had one really good friend. His name was Travis Baker. Travis was a little nerdy, but he was a lot more outgoing than I was, a lot more fearless, less concerned with what the other kids thought about him. He came from a wealthy family, so maybe that’s where some of his confidence came from. When it happened, we were both juniors in high school, and it was late in the school year, middle of April. Travis got invited to a house party. Finally, we were going to hang out with the cool kids. We were going to be around the girls who ignored us in class. Travis’ parents bought him a car a few months before that. It was a late nineties Lincoln; it was only a few years old at the time, kind of an expensive car for a seventeen-year-old kid.”

• • •

Phil thought back to that time as he talked, and he was suddenly there again, suddenly seventeen years old and at that house party. He couldn’t really remember whose house they were at or who had thrown the party . . . maybe it had been Misha Fleischman, but he couldn’t be exactly sure.

The house was remote, way out on Tonkata Farms Road. Misha’s dad was a long-haul truck driver, and her mom did something in the medical field. They weren’t as rich as Travis’ parents, not even close, but they were doing okay for themselves. Their house sat on seven acres of land, much of which was woods.

There had to have been at least thirty or forty kids there. It was far enough from any neighbors and there were plenty of places to park. Inside, loud music blared and some of the girls danced. Some of the guys were playing quarters at a kitchen table, getting very drunk.

Phil and Travis talked to a few of the other kids as they drank beer out of red plastic cups, draft beer from a keg. After four or five beers, Phil’s inhibitions had melted away, along with everyone else’s. He realized that these kids weren’t so bad, many of them were a little like he was—shy and afraid to make a fool of themselves, afraid to face any kind of rejection.

The night wore on, and soon it was two o’clock in the morning. Phil and Travis were being kicked out along with the few stragglers left. Phil was surprised to find that so many of the other kids had left already; he hadn’t even noticed.

Phil and Travis stumbled out to his Lincoln. They were going to drive back to Travis’ house where they could sneak in through a basement door without his parents ever knowing. Travis’ parents were good people, but they believed in giving Travis anything he wanted, and that included letting him stay out late on the weekends. To Phil, it seemed like they wanted to be his friend more than they wanted to be his parents.

They sat down in the car and Phil’s head was spinning. But he wasn’t so drunk that he wasn’t a little concerned about Travis’ driving.

“You okay to drive?” Phil asked Travis.

“I’m fine. I didn’t drink as much as you did.”

That was a lie of course, but Phil believed him. And Phil, being the “worry wart” that he was, was still concerned about running into cops on the way home.

“I know a back way,” Travis said as he turned the car around in the dirt drive. He shoved the shifter into drive and idled down the curvy driveway through the woods. “We’ll take a road through the woods. Probably won’t even see a single car on the way home.”

That made Phil feel a little better.

Phil stared out the windshield. “Your lights,” he told Travis.

“What about ‘em?”

“You need to turn them on.”

“Oh,” Travis said. He turned on his headlights, illuminating the dirt drive and then he busted out with laughter.

Phil couldn’t help it, he laughed too.

The drive down Tonkata Farms Road was as desolate as Travis had promised, and then they entered the Tonkata woods, driving down the deserted road. Phil didn’t remember much of the drive until they saw the girl.

As they drove past the woods, the trees thinned out a little and there were some open meadows in the distance, but then the trees took over again, crowding both sides of the street. A full moon lit up the dark world with a silvery glow. It was beautiful, a cool night, but not too cold. No rain or fog.

They were talking as Travis sped down the road. Travis was telling stories about a family of cannibals that lived in the woods around there. He said they took people that had broken down on the side of the road, taking them back to their cabins so they could cut them up, cook them, and then eat them.

“I hope my car doesn’t break down,” he said, grinning at Phil.

While Travis was smiling at him, Phil saw a blur of movement in the road. The headlights washed over a girl on a bicycle; she was riding right out of the woods and onto the road.

“Travis, look out!” Phil yelled.

Travis slammed on the brakes, trying to stop the car, but not before the front of it slammed into the girl on the bicycle. Phil heard the sickening crunch as the girl flew over the hood, then smashed into the windshield. She was up and over the car, and then gone.

Travis’ car finally slid to a stop in the road, the skidding tires screeching in the night air. The Lincoln was angled off of the road a little, the one working headlight pointed at the woods and the mangled bicycle that lay just at the edge of the tree line.

• • •

“We hit her,” Phil told Cathy and Detective Grady. He took another sip from his drink, but he gulped down a few swallows, nearly finishing it.

Cathy touched Phil’s thigh, rubbing it gently.

“I’m sorry,” Phil told her as he set his glass back down on the coaster. He tried his best to hold back his tears. “I never wanted to tell you any of this. I never wanted you to know.”

She nodded, her lips tight, her eyes locked on to his. “You need to go on,” she told him. “You need to tell the rest of it.”

Phil didn’t want to continue, but he knew Cathy was right—he needed to get it out now, he needed to tell everyone the truth.

Phil began talking again, but he didn’t look at his wife or the detective as he continued.

• • •

Phil remembered Travis sitting there behind the steering wheel, frozen with shock for a moment, his hands gripping the wheel like he was still driving. He stared out through the cracked windshield. One headlight was out, the other one pointing at the woods, a splash of light across the grasses and trees and the twisted piece of metal that used to be the girl’s bicycle. There were no other cars in sight on the lonely road, no other sounds except for the rumbling of the Lincoln’s engine.

“Oh shit,” Travis whispered. He started trembling. His voice grew louder and more panicked. “Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit!”

Phil was suddenly sober. And suddenly nauseous. He opened up the door and stumbled out. He thought for a moment that he was going to puke, but he held it down. He walked to the rear of the car on legs that were somehow both rubbery with fear and buzzing with adrenaline at the same time. He looked for the girl that they’d just hit, praying that she wasn’t dead, praying that she wasn’t hurt too badly.

He saw her in the road, thirty feet beyond the rear of the car. She was sprawled out on the pavement, her arms and legs contorted in painful-looking positions.

Phil hurried towards the girl, his legs seeming to move on their own. He felt almost like he was floating across the pavement towards her, like he was a hostage in some kind of dream, trapped in a nightmare.

And then he was standing beside the girl. She looked to be about fourteen or fifteen years old. She wore jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt with a big number twenty-four on it, like some kind of generic football jersey. Blood was seeping out of wounds in her head, out of her blond hair, and out of one ear. There were cuts and bruises on her face, her left eye nearly swollen shut. She stared up at Phil with her one good eye . . . it was so blue and so round with fear. She tried to speak, her split lips quivering.

Phil crouched down beside her. “Don’t talk,” he told her.

She still whispered, trying to move but wincing and moaning in pain. She looked towards the woods from where she’d come, then she looked back at Phil with panic in her one eye.

“You’re going to be okay,” Phil told her. He didn’t want to touch her. “We’re going to get you some help, okay? Just don’t move.”

She didn’t respond, and he wondered if she even knew what he was saying. Maybe her mind had been scrambled from the accident.

Running sneakers approached from behind Phil, and then Travis was beside him.

“Oh God,” Travis said. “This can’t be happening.”

Phil grabbed Travis’ arm. “Look at me.”

Travis met Phil’s eyes, but he still looked like he was going to sob, or maybe puke, or maybe run away.

“Use your cell phone to call an ambulance,” Phil told him. “Call 911.” Travis was one of the few teenagers that Phil knew of at that time whose parents had bought him his own cell phone.

But Travis wasn’t running back to his car to get the phone.

“Travis?”

“There’s no one around,” Travis said in a low voice.

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s no one around. No one saw us do this.”

Another wave of nausea wormed through Phil’s stomach. “Travis, go get your phone.”

“No one will ever know. That girl, she’s not going to make it. She’s going to die, and we’ll go to jail for murder.”

“Travis!” Phil barked at him. “Go get your fucking phone right now!”

“Just think about it, Phil. No one will know.”

“I’ll know,” Phil told him.

For a moment Phil thought Travis might leave him; he might run back to his car, get in and drive away. But it seemed like scenarios were running through Travis’ mind. Travis knew Phil would tell the truth. There was no running from this now. He seemed to almost collapse on himself in defeat, possibly humiliated by his suggestion of running. “I’m sorry. I . . . I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Get your phone,” Phil said. “Call 911.”

Travis nodded and then ran back to his car, his sneakers slapping at the road as he ran. There were no street lights on the dark road, and the only light came from Travis’ Lincoln and the full moon shining down on them. There was enough light for Phil to see that Travis had been right—this girl wasn’t going to make it.

“Just hang on,” Phil told the girl. “You’re going to be okay. My friend’s calling an ambulance for you right now.”

The girl looked towards the woods again, swallowed with some difficulty, and then tried to whisper something. She only moved her mouth a little, like her jaw had been broken, like it was too painful to move it. But she still tried to speak. And Phil heard words from her that sounded like: “He’s there.”

Phil looked at the woods again. He didn’t see anyone. Maybe she was hallucinating, her mind mixed up from the accident, her brain swelling with fluid.

She grabbed on to Phil’s wrist, jolting his attention back to her. She held him tight. “Save . . . save me.”

Tears poured out of Phil’s eyes. He nodded. “We’re going to do that. We’re going to get you help.”

“Save me . . . save me from . . .”

• • •

Phil swallowed the last of his whiskey down. He got up and went to the kitchen to make another one. With his fresh drink in hand, he came back to the living room and sat back down on the couch right next to Cathy.

Neither Cathy nor Detective Grady had spoken during his entire story, during his admission of guilt. And they both stared at him right now.

“She died?” Cathy finally asked. But it was more of a statement than a question.

Phil nodded. “Yes. She died on the way to the hospital. They couldn’t save her. God, she was only fourteen years old.”

Cathy laid a hand on Phil’s knee, and then gave it a slight squeeze. “I’m so sorry.”

He placed his hand on top of hers. “I tried to tell you . . . I tried a bunch of times. But I didn’t know how to begin. I was so ashamed. I’ve always been so ashamed of what happened. Of what we did.”

“And you’re still drinking,” Detective Grady said in a cold voice.

Phil looked at the detective and saw that he had his gun out, the weapon resting on his leg. Had that gun been there on his leg the whole time he’d been telling his story? He couldn’t remember.

“What?” Phil asked Detective Grady.

“I said you’re still drinking after what you did,” His voice was lower and colder now.

THIRTY-THREE

Cathy

Cathy’s heart stopped for a moment, and then it began beating hard. She pulled her hand away from Phil’s knee. It wasn’t just what Detective Grady had said, but the way he had said it. And there was a strange look in his eyes. She wondered why he still had his gun out.

“What?” Phil asked the detective again.

“You’re still drinking,” Detective Grady said with a humorless smile, a grin that looked like a curved gash in his face. He nodded slightly, indicating the mixed drink on the coffee table in front of Phil.

Phil tore his eyes away from Grady and looked at the drink in front of him. “I tried to quit,” he said in a low voice, almost like he was talking to himself.

“The drinking helps you forget, doesn’t it?” Detective Grady said, his voice a little lower. “The drinking helps you block out the memory of what you did.”

Phil didn’t answer. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, and then he snapped it closed again, swallowing hard.

“He just started drinking again,” Cathy said, rushing to her husband’s defense. “He quit for years, only the occasional drink here and there. He didn’t start drinking like this until we were followed home on Saturday night.”

Detective Grady glared at Cathy, his stone-cold eyes were on her for only a moment, and then he turned his attention back to Phil. “So, back to your story.”

Phil didn’t say anything. Cathy knew he wanted to take another drink, but the detective had made him feel self-conscious about it now.

“No?” Detective Grady asked Phil. “Let’s see, where were we? You and your friend—Travis I think you said his name was—you two were driving drunk.”

“Travis was driving,” Cathy said.

Detective Grady kept his eyes on Phil. “But both of you were drunk. Both of you were irresponsible. And then a fourteen-year-old girl died because of you.”

Cathy shot up to her feet. “What the hell is this?”

“Sit down,” the detective growled.

“Don’t tell me what to do in my own house.”

Phil looked at her. “Cathy . . . please.”

She sat back down.

“So, the girl dies,” Detective Grady continued. “And what happened to you and Travis? What kind of punishment did you two receive for your crime?”

“For an accident,” Cathy corrected through clenched teeth.

“Driving drunk is a crime.”

“Could you put your gun away?” Cathy asked Detective Grady. “It’s making me nervous.”

He ignored her, his eyes still on Phil, waiting for his response.

Phil cleared his throat, still looking at the glass of liquor on the coffee table. “We were arrested. We were charged. Travis’ parents bailed us out, and then we went to court.”

“And then what happened?” Detective Grady asked. “I mean in court. What happened with that?”

Cathy suddenly realized that Detective Grady was different. Everything about him seemed to be different. His voice had changed, his mannerisms, even his face seemed to have changed somehow.

Phil didn’t answer the detective.

“Let me guess,” Detective Grady said. “You got basically a slap on the wrist. Is that right?”

Phil didn’t answer.

“You said your friend’s parents were wealthy, right? And Travis’ dad hired some fancy, high-priced lawyer who got you two off with nothing.” The detective’s voice was rising. “Isn’t that right?”

“What is this?” Cathy said again.

“A young girl,” Detective Grady continued. “Fourteen years old. Just beginning her life. You and your friend end that precious life and get nothing for it. No jail time. No adult criminal record. Nothing.”

“Who are you?” Cathy said as a feeling of dread weighed her down. Her skin prickled with fear as a realization dawned on her. “You’re not a cop, are you?”

Grady picked his gun up from his thigh and aimed it at Cathy, then he pointed it at Phil.

Cathy lost her breath for a moment. She’d fallen out of a tree when she was six years old, landing flat on her back, knocking the breath out of her. For those few moments she couldn’t catch her breath as she lay on the grass. It was a feeling she’d never forgotten, and now she felt just like that for a moment when Grady had aimed his gun at her, like her breath had been ripped away from her and she was struggling to get it back.

“You want to know who I am?” Grady asked Cathy. “I was the pool guy you saw out there the other day. I was in the supermarket line next to you a week ago. I was in traffic with you a few weeks before that, a few cars behind you. I’ve been in your lives for months now, and you’ve never even noticed. I’ve been watching you, collecting all the information I needed about you while you two went on with your lives, oblivious to everything around you.”

“What do you want?” Cathy asked.

Grady pulled a pair of handcuffs out of the leather pouch attached to his belt. He tossed them at Phil.

The cuffs landed in Phil’s lap with a loud clinking sound. Phil jumped back, like a large spider had landed on him.

“Cuff your wife’s hands behind her back,” Grady told Phil.

Phil made no move to pick up the handcuffs.

“Whatever you think you’re doing—” Cathy began.

“Shut up,” Grady snapped at her. “Stand up and turn around. Put your hands behind your back.”

Cathy was already shaking her head no, not even able to believe this was really happening. How had everything spun out of control so quickly?

Grady was on his feet in a flash, quick for a man his size. He jabbed his gun in the air at Phil, his finger on the trigger, his face red with rage, a thick vein materializing on his forehead as he shouted. “Do what I said, Phil!”

Phil picked up the handcuffs, fumbling with them.

“No, Phil,” Cathy said. She couldn’t let this happen. She couldn’t be handcuffed and helpless with this maniac in their house.

Phil held the handcuffs in his hands, staring at Cathy. He still hadn’t gotten to his feet yet.

Grady sat back down on the couch in front of the windows. He was hunched forward again, his expression suddenly calm, the redness fading from his pale face just as quickly as it had come. His voice was soft again when he spoke, almost conversational. “I could start shooting your knees out, Phil. And your wife’s knees. Neither of you would be able to run.” He snorted out a laugh. “Hell, you wouldn’t even be able to stand. Even crawling would be painful. I could torture the two of you after that, draw things out for hours . . . all night long if I wanted to. I’m sure you’ve talked to Travis’ parents by now, haven’t you, Phil?”

Phil didn’t answer. He looked shell-shocked.

“I’m sure they told you what happened to Travis. You know what I can do.”

Phil looked at Cathy as he stood up, a decision made. “Cathy, I’m sorry. Stand up. Turn around.”

Cathy felt a balloon of panic inflating inside of her, about to explode like oil from a derrick. She could feel a nervous energy sizzling through her like live electricity. She felt like bolting in a blind panic, rational thoughts fading away and leaving nothing behind but pure survival instincts.

Grady was back on his feet again, his gun aimed at her now. “Don’t try to run, Cathy,” he said like he knew what she’d been planning on doing. “Turn around and let Phil put those handcuffs on you.”

Cathy still didn’t turn around, still hesitating, still ready to run.

“There’s a chance you can make it out of this,” Grady said. “Hell, maybe even both of you can make it out of this. But if you don’t do what I tell you to, then your life ends right now. And so does Phil’s.”

The panic sank down inside of Cathy, a crushing feeling of defeat and hopelessness weighing on her like she’d never known before. If she didn’t allow Phil to bind her arms behind her back, then she was dead in mere moments. But once she was handcuffed, then what were her chances of survival? Was Grady lying about possibly letting her go? Was he lying about letting both of them go?

She turned around and put her hands behind her back, her legs shaking so badly she thought she might collapse. She felt Phil snapping the cuffs on her wrists, locking the cold steel in place. They were still loose on her wrists, but they were locked now and there was no hope of escape. Her thoughts turned to Megan—at least Megan wasn’t here.

“That’s right,” Grady cooed, confident again now that things were going his way. “You two do everything I tell you to, and nobody is going to get hurt. Not you or your husband. Or Megan.”

Cathy turned around and stared at him.

He smiled. “Megan is only right down the street. At Barbara’s house? I think that’s what you told me earlier.”

THIRTY-FOUR

Phil

“Pull on those cuffs,” Grady told Phil. “I want to make sure they’re secure.”

Phil felt nauseous, like the liquor he’d drunk was going to come back up like an acidic river of vomit. None of this felt real—this couldn’t really be happening. He was scared for himself, but even more so for Cathy, and now most of all for Megan. But maybe Grady (or whatever his real name was) only wanted him. Grady had only killed Travis and no one else, so maybe he was just going to tie Cathy up and leave her here, take him somewhere else to kill him.

God, I hope he doesn’t kill me in front of her.

So many thoughts ran through his mind, but he tried to remain as calm as he could. He needed to follow orders for now, try to stall for time so he could try to find a way to get through to this man. He was a psychologist, if there was anyone who could get through to Grady, it would be him.

Phil pulled on the handcuffs, tugging Cathy back a little, and she fought to keep her balance.

“Good,” Grady purred. “You can turn back around now, Cathy.”

Cathy turned back around, staring at Grady with wide eyes. Phil could already see the tears forming.

“Sit down,” Grady said, gesturing at the couch with a gentle wave of his gun.

Phil helped Cathy sit down on the couch next to him, her legs right up against his. She felt so warm. She was breathing so fast, her breaths shallow.

“Do you know who that girl was that you and your friend murdered?” Grady asked Phil.

“Look,” Phil said, trying to keep his voice even but firm. “I know you’re upset about what happened. I know you’re—”

Grady giggled, shaking his head a little, wagging his gun back and forth like it was a giant finger, cutting off Phil’s words. “Don’t try the psychobabble on me, doc. I’ve heard it all through the years. Yeah, I’ve talked to a lot of doctors just like you, and you know what? All of you guys sound just alike.”

“I know you’re still in a lot of pain about what happened,” Phil began.

“That girl was my sister,” Grady said. His expression had changed instantly, his features growing tight and cold, his eyes hard again, his mouth a thin line. “Yep. That’s right. You and Travis killed my little sister.”

“It was an accident,” Phil said, doing his best to keep his voice firm. “I’m so sorry about what happened. You have to believe that. But it was just an accident.” Phil thought about explaining that the girl had ridden her bicycle right out of the woods into the road, arguing that she had been somewhat at fault. But he didn’t.

And now a realization occurred to Phil, but it wasn’t something he could see clearly yet. There was something about Dolores riding her bicycle out of the woods. That memory was triggering something . . . some important detail about that night, something he hadn’t noticed then. But what? There was something obvious that he should’ve seen that night. He’d tried so hard all these years to block that night out of his memories that he’d forgotten so many details. But after recounting the accident to his wife and Grady, all of those memories were coming back in full force now. And he was beginning to remember something . . . something important.

Grady got up and paced back and forth in front of them, just beyond the coffee table, his hard shoes clacking on the tiled floor. “You probably don’t remember me, do you, Phil?”

Phil didn’t remember Grady. Should he? He chose to remain silent.

“I was in court a few times during your trial. But you probably never knew that. I sat in the back. The place was kind of packed with people, if you remember. It was kind of a big deal back then. Local girl killed by two teenage drivers. Poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks carelessly struck down by two rich boys who don’t even pay for their crime.”

Phil tried a different line of questioning. “What’s your name? It’s obviously not Grady.”

“See?” Grady said, and that lunatic smile was back on his face. “You’re trying to change the subject.”

Phil saw that Grady could change his expression instantly, and he seemed to be exhibiting several psychiatric disorders: multiple personality syndrome, paranoia, delusions, he was possibly bipolar. “No, I just want to know your name.”

“You don’t remember me,” Grady said. “You don’t remember my name. You don’t remember my face. I bet you don’t even remember my sister’s name.”

“Dolores,” Phil said. “I remember her.”

Phil looked at Cathy, and he saw that she recognized the name. She’d told him that he’d been talking in his sleep. Had he mentioned Dolores’ name before?

“What’s my name?” Grady asked.

“I don’t know your name,” Phil answered in a calm voice. “That’s why I asked.”

Grady stared at Phil for a moment, sizing him up. Then he smiled like he’d just caught the punchline of a joke. “You just want to know my name so you can say it over and over again, try to establish some kind of rapport with me. See, I told you that I’ve been to a bunch of shrinks. I know all of your little tricks.”

Phil thought back to the courtroom, trying to remember if he’d seen Dolores’ brother there, or if any of her family had been there. He couldn’t even remember her parents being in court. Of course everything had been like a blur to him then, nothing even feeling real. But still, it seemed strange that he couldn’t even remember a grieving mother on the stand, or a family sitting behind him in the courtroom, staring daggers at him. It seemed strange, but it also seemed important, and he was sure it had something to do with what he was struggling to remember.

“Well, I don’t mind admitting that I cracked up a little after losing my sister,” Grady said. “Yeah, I went from mental institution to mental institution, nuthouse to nuthouse, treatment after treatment to deal with the pain you caused. I talked to so many psychiatrists just like you, but none of them helped.”

Grady paused like a thought had just struck him. “Odd, isn’t it, that you became a psychiatrist after what you did.”

“I just want to help people,” Phil said.

Grady seemed to consider Phil’s statement for a moment, and then he shook his head slightly as if dismissing it. “I ended up helping myself,” he said. “I did what none of you quacks could do, I figured out a way to make my pain go away, a way to make myself feel better.” He paused for a moment, standing very still, his face emotionless now. “You took something away from me, Phil. And now I want to take something away from you.”

THIRTY-FIVE

Officer Wells

Officer Wells was sitting in his police cruiser when he saw the white pickup truck speed by. His radar detector lit up, but he didn’t need the detector to tell him that the truck was driving well over the speed limit.

Wells shifted into drive, hit the lights and sirens, and then sped after the pickup. He’d caught up to the truck in a few seconds, following him. But the truck wasn’t pulling over, it wasn’t even slowing down.

Something about the truck struck a memory in Wells, the make and model, the year, the bumper stickers on the back, the faded gray color—almost white—the big tires on the back. He was suddenly sure that this was the same vehicle that the man in The Oaks subdivision had described when he’d been called out there a few nights ago. The man had claimed that the driver of a pickup truck had followed him and his wife home last Saturday night. Of course there wasn’t much Wells could do for the man, and he’d realized that the man had gotten upset about that.

What was the man’s name? Something with a P. Paul . . . Peter . . .

Phil. Phil Stanton.

Dr. Stanton, the man had said, correcting him.

Yes, the man’s name was Dr. Phil Stanton. Wells was good with names, good at remembering details. He hoped that his great memory, along with other skills he had developed, would help him make detective in a few years.

One of the reasons Wells hadn’t been able to help Phil Stanton that night, or even on his second trip to that house on the same night, was because Phil hadn’t had many details about the truck or the driver. He had no description of the driver, a vague description of a common vehicle, and no license plate number.

But now Wells had the tag number right in front of him. He called in the pursuit while hanging back behind the truck a few car lengths. He didn’t want to crowd the truck just yet; he didn’t want to make the driver more reckless, causing him to hit another vehicle or a house. Maybe the driver would begin to slow down soon and pull over when he realized that he had no hope of outrunning Wells.

A moment later dispatch came back with the name of the owner of the truck: Carlos Ramirez. Thirty-eight years old and no warrants or criminal record. She also informed Wells that backup was on the way.

Wells had hoped that Mr. Ramirez would come to his senses eventually and pull over. But after a few more minutes he realized that the driver wasn’t going to give up. There were many reasons drivers refused to pull over: warrants for their arrest, they were drunk or high, they had drugs or something else illegal in their vehicle. And sometimes it was just for the fun of it, or to maybe get on the nightly news, some kind of criminal superstar for the night.

But Wells had a pretty good idea of why Carlos was running—Carlos had been stalking Phil Stanton and his family for some reason.

Two other police cruisers had joined in on the chase, their lights and sirens flashing. One of the cruisers was Davis’ car. The other one was Penski’s car. If this chase went on too much longer, the helicopter might be dispatched.

Carlos Ramirez still wasn’t slowing down even though there was no chance of him getting away. Wells wished the man would just pull over before he or someone else got hurt or killed.

Davis passed Wells and bumped the tail end of Carlos’ truck, nudging it just enough to get him to overcorrect. Davis slowed down as Carlos veered off the road, hydroplaned a shallow ditch, and then the pickup truck collided with a gigantic oak tree. Carlos had hit his brakes at the last second, but the impact had still been violent. A sickening crunch rang out in the night. There was a blast from the truck’s horn from when the driver had slammed into the steering wheel (no airbags in a truck that old), and then silence. Steam drifted up from the front of the truck in the glow of the one headlight that hadn’t busted on impact.

Wells skidded to a stop in the road in front of the shallow ditch. The other two police cruisers also slid to a stop. Everything seemed to be slowing down for Wells, yet everything was also a blur at the same time. It was the same contradictive sense of feeling he had sometimes of drifting along helplessly, yet still being in control with laser-like focus. He jumped out of his car, his weapon drawn without his even realizing it. He was behind his opened door, shouting at the driver to stay in the truck, his training taking over, almost like he was on autopilot.

“Stay in your vehicle,” Davis shouted from behind his own car door. He had stopped his car almost directly across from Carlos’ truck, Davis’ headlight beams shining onto the side of the truck. All of the cop cars’ lights illuminated everything like a movie set.

Wells watched as the driver fell out of his truck with his hands up. The driver wasn’t armed, and he was hurt. But he wasn’t following orders, and Wells was afraid Davis was going to shoot Carlos Ramirez at any moment.

Before Wells even realized what he was doing, he had holstered his service pistol and he was across the shallow ditch in a flash.

“Don’t shoot!” Wells yelled at Davis as he entered the splash of light from the headlights, running towards the fallen man.

“What the hell are you doing, Wells?” Davis yelled. “Get out of there!”

Wells ignored Davis as he hurried over to the driver. He was working on instinct now. Something was wrong with this picture. Why would a man like Carlos, a man with no prior criminal history stalk a man and his wife?

Carlos was down on the ground, on his side, facing the cop cars. His face was cut, blood pouring out of his nose—most likely from the impact with the steering wheel.

“Are you Carlos Ramirez?” Wells shouted at the man.

The man nodded, wincing in pain.

“Get an ambulance here!” Wells yelled back at Davis. He turned around to look at the other two officers. It looked like Penski was calling it in, but Davis was still in position behind the cover of his driver’s door, his gun still aimed this way.

Wells turned his attention back to Carlos, not even sure exactly why he had run towards him. But there was something strange about this whole thing, something strange that he couldn’t identify, but that he could feel. And he always went with his gut-feelings. “We’ve got an ambulance on the way, Mr. Ramirez,” he told Carlos.

Carlos rolled over onto his back, breathing with difficulty like his nose was broken.

“Don’t try to move,” Wells told him. “You might have injured your neck or back in the crash.”

“My baby . . .” Carlos said.

“Baby? What baby?” Wells’ heart jumped. “Is there a baby in your truck? A child? Someone else?”

“No,” Carlos groaned. “No one in my truck. But I have to . . . have to get my baby girl back from him.”

“Back from who?”

Carlos’ eyes opened wide with fear as he stared up at Wells, as if finally noticing that someone was standing over him. “He’s got my daughter. He’s going to kill her.”

“Who?”

“He’s making me do this.”

Davis was suddenly beside Wells, his gun still in his hand and aimed at Carlos. “You don’t have to say anything,” he told Carlos. “You haven’t been read your rights yet.”

Wells could feel Davis’ scowl, but he kept his attention on Carlos as a creeping fear moved through him. “Who’s making you do this?”

“Don’t answer that,” Davis snapped at Carlos.

“I don’t know who he is,” Carlos said and then winced in pain. He swallowed hard. He seemed to be trying to focus on Wells, but also seemed to be having trouble focusing at all.

“Wells, read him his rights,” Davis ordered.

“He’s crazy,” Carlos said, ignoring Davis as much as Wells was. “He’s got my daughter. He told me he’d let her go if I did this one last thing tonight.” Carlos’ face crumpled in anguish. “Please . . . help me.”

A siren wailed in the distance.

“Did you follow a couple to their house last Saturday night?” Wells asked Carlos.

Carlos started to cry.

“That’s enough,” Davis snapped.

“I need to know,” Wells told Carlos.

“He can’t answer that,” Davis said. “He can’t incriminate himself without his rights being read. He’s injured, not in his right mind.”

Wells ignored Davis, his eyes still on Carlos.

And Carlos locked eyes with Wells.

“Lawyers are going to have a field day with this,” Davis muttered as he holstered his pistol.

“Tell me,” Wells said to Carlos.

Carlos stopped crying and stared up at Wells. He nodded slightly. “Yes. He told me to.”

“Is he there?” Wells asked. “Is he there right now?” Wells watched him, not even sure if he understood his question.

But then Carlos nodded, his eyes squeezed shut, his breathing rattled through his broken nose.

Wells jumped to his feet and ran to his police cruiser.

“Where the hell are you going?” Davis shouted.

Wells didn’t answer Davis—he didn’t have time to explain.

THIRTY-SIX

Phil

Phil watched Grady. He was trying his best to figure out the right mental buttons to push with him, trying to figure out the best way to slow things down and hopefully calm him down somehow.

“I realize the pain you’ve been through,” Phil told Grady. “I don’t understand it, and I don’t know it, but I can only imagine the loss you still feel, and your need for retribution.”

“You don’t know shit!” Grady barked, his expression fierce for just a moment. And then he was smiling again, his expression changing again to a smug look of satisfaction. “See? That’s my whole point. You’ll never know how I feel until you experience that feeling yourself.”

Phil felt his stomach drop. “That’s not going to make things better. That’s not going to make your pain go away. It’s not going to bring your sister back.”

“No, it won’t bring my sister back. But it will make me feel better. You took her away from me. You never gave me a chance to finish . . .”

Grady stopped abruptly.

He had almost said something, Phil realized. Grady had almost let something slip. And in that moment Phil realized what it was that he’d been trying to remember, the clue that had been hidden from him, the clue that tied everything together. And he knew what Grady had been about to say.

“You think you shrinks know everything,” Grady continued on quickly, trying to cover his slip now. “Just because you went to a fancy school and got a degree, you think you know everything about a person. But you don’t.”

“What did you do?” Phil asked in a gentle voice, taking a chance. He knew this line of questioning could be dangerous; it could backfire and make Grady even angrier.

“Get her up on her feet,” Grady ordered, nodding at Cathy.

“Wait,” Phil said. “Grady. Let’s . . . let’s slow down for a moment and think about this.”

“NOW!” Grady roared, jabbing his gun in the air at Phil, his finger on the trigger now.

Cathy let out a moan and shook her head no as Phil grabbed her arm gently, helping her up to her feet.

“Take her over there away from the couch and the table,” Grady said, gesturing with his gun at the large open area of the living room.

“What are you going to do?” Cathy asked, her voice remarkably steady even though she was trembling so badly.

“I’m not going to do anything,” Grady said. “Phil is.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a large knife from a sheath underneath his clothing.

Phil heard Cathy’s gasp and he felt his own breath stop for a moment. The knife blade was at least seven inches long and came to a wicked point. It looked like some kind of hunting knife. And then he remembered his phone call with Travis’ father a little while ago. Ted said that Travis had been gutted with a hunting knife.

Grady bent down and set the knife on the floor. He kicked it over to Phil, the knife sliding easily across the tiled floor with a scraping sound.

Phil watched the weapon slide towards him like a shuffleboard puck, until it came to stop right by his foot.

“Pick it up, Phil.”

Phil tried to stall, tried to think of something to say, some way to get through to Grady.

“I haven’t got all night,” Grady said.

Phil still hesitated, looking down at the knife, then at Grady again as thoughts raced through his mind. Maybe Cathy could run. Maybe he could take a bullet and let his wife escape. But where was Cathy supposed to go with her hands cuffed behind her back? How far would she get before Grady overtook her?

“You’ve got two choices, Phil. One: You kill your wife with that hunting knife, and I let you and your daughter live. Yes, you live with that loss in your life like I have, but at least you’ll still have your daughter.”

“Megan,” Phil whispered.

“Or two. All three of you die.”

“You leave our daughter out of this,” Cathy said.

Grady smiled at Cathy. “I’ve already been to Barbara’s house earlier tonight.”

“Where’s Megan?” Cathy yelled.

For a moment Phil’s mind was sluggish. Grady’s been to Barbara’s house . . . he did something to Megan?

“What have you done to her?” Cathy roared, tears flowing now.

“She’s safe,” Grady said, gesturing at Cathy to calm down like her theatrics were beginning to annoy him. “But she won’t be safe for long. I’ve set a little . . . I don’t know what you’d call it, like a trap she’s in; a time-sensitive trap. She only has so much time before . . . well, you know. So we can’t dilly-dally around.”

A surge of anger suddenly boiled inside of Phil, threatening to blow. For a split second Phil was ready to grab the knife from the floor and make a suicide run at Grady. But he had to stop himself. He couldn’t let his emotions run him right now, he needed to think and outsmart Grady somehow.

Grady had turned his attention back to Phil, and that amused grin was on his face again. “I see it in you,” Grady said. “I know you can kill your wife. It’s not that hard to do. You just stick that knife into her abdomen and then rip up to her breastbone. Or rip to the side. She’ll bleed out in minutes. Or you could slice her throat open. I don’t care how you do it, but you’d better get started soon.”

“You’re a sick fucking bastard,” Cathy said, wrenching her arm out of Phil’s grasp. “I hope you pay for this. I hope you rot in hell.”

“I appreciate the spunk, Cathy, but no one’s going to catch me.”

“You can have me,” Cathy said. “I just want to know that you’ve let my daughter go.”

“If you cooperate,” Grady said. “You have my word that I will let her live.”

Cathy burst into tears again, shaking her head. “No you won’t.”

Phil felt like the knife was ripping through his own guts now, a blade of guilt and shame. How could he have let this happen? Why couldn’t he have seen this coming? How did he let things get this far?

“Tick tock,” Grady said. “Time’s a-wasting for Megan.”

Phil didn’t want to imagine where Megan might be, tied up somewhere in the dark, or stuck in some kind of box. Or maybe dead somewhere. Of course there was always the chance that Grady was lying about going down to Barbara’s house. Maybe he hadn’t gone there yet. But he would definitely go there after he was done here.

And Phil, like Cathy, was under no delusions that Grady was going to keep his promise. He suspected that Grady would kill him after he killed Cathy. And then he would take a leisurely drive down the road to Barbara’s house and kill both of them. There was no way out of this, nothing but a dead end at every turn.

Except . . . that one clue that had come to him, one last card he might be able to play. And now he’d seen it. He remembered now everything that Dolores had said to him that night.

“Three seconds, Phil.”

Could he use that against Grady? Would that kind of revelation be enough to rock Grady, to throw him off balance enough? Maybe even shock him into realizing what he was doing?

“Go on, Phil. It shouldn’t be too difficult for you to kill your wife. You’ve killed before. You’re a killer.”

“No,” Phil said. “I know why your sister rode her bicycle out of the woods that night in front of us.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Officer Wells

Officer Wells turned into the entrance of The Oaks subdivision a little too quickly, his tires sliding, the back end of his squad car fishtailing just a little. It was raining now and the roads were too slick for him to be driving this fast. He had already turned off the flashing lights and the siren as soon as he’d entered the neighborhood. If someone was at Phil’s house, then he didn’t want to alert them just yet.

Wells had to do this on his own; he couldn’t involve Davis and Penski in this crackpot theory of his. Carlos had told him tonight that someone had kidnapped his daughter and made him follow the Stantons home last Saturday night. And then that person had made Carlos do whatever he’d done tonight. Had Carlos done something to Phil and his family?

There was always the possibility that Carlos was lying about this man who was making him do things. Or there was the possibility that Carlos was mentally disturbed, or high on drugs.

None of that mattered right now. What mattered the most was that Phil Stanton and his family were safe—he had to check on them; he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something had happened to them, or something was happening now and he hadn’t tried to help. Maybe Carlos was lying about a man making him do things, but Wells couldn’t help feeling that Carlos was telling the truth; there was something about the look in his eyes, the anguish in his voice.

Even if no one was at Phil Stanton’s house, this visit would give Wells another chance to talk to the doctor. Because there was another gut feeling that was nagging at Wells, a certainty that Phil knew more about all of this than he was willing to say.

“Where the hell are you going?” Davis had yelled at Wells as he was leaving the scene of Carlos’ accident.

Wells hadn’t had time to explain everything to Davis. He knew that Phil, his wife, and his daughter were in some kind of danger—he could feel it. It would take too long to explain everything to Davis and Penski, and he probably would never convince them anyway.

“You can’t leave the scene!” Davis had yelled as Wells ran back to his squad car. “You’re going to get suspended for this!”

Yes, he probably was. But if he could stop this person’s plan before it started, if he could at least warn Phil and Cathy and their daughter, protect them somehow, then the suspension would be worth it.

“I have to check on something,” Wells had yelled over his shoulder as he’d gotten into his car.

And now he was here in the subdivision where Dr. Phil Stanton lived. He followed the curve of the road through the homes, finally coming to another road that led to the second phase of this neighborhood, a phase that had never been completed because of the economic crash. Some places had never really recovered completely after all these years.

Wells knew he could be wrong about all of this tonight, but hopefully he would get there before something bad happened. Hopefully he could convince Phil that he and his family were in danger.

Phase II of The Oaks subdivision turned into Phase III with its sea of empty lots, only two houses standing far off in the distance. He turned onto the lonely road where only Phil’s house stood halfway down the street. The home looked so odd standing by itself among all of the homeless lots. Lightning split the sky, lighting up the world for a moment, shining a spotlight down on Phil’s one-story home and its manicured lawn. The rain was falling even harder now, a downpour.

Wells didn’t see any vehicles parked in the street or in the driveway, and he began to get the first sinking feeling that maybe he’d made the wrong decision, overreacting. But he felt that it was better to err on the side of caution, even if his captain probably wasn’t going to agree with him.

It was too late now. He was here, and he was going to knock on the door and talk to Phil and his wife about this.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Phil

“I remember what Dolores said now,” Phil told Grady. “I must’ve blocked it all out through the years, and maybe it didn’t make sense to me at the time, but I see it all now.”

“Stop talking, Phil, or I swear I’m going to start shooting your kneecaps out. I’ll make you beg me to kill you and your wife.”

“Your sister,” Phil went on quickly. “Dolores. She said, ‘He’s following me. Save me.’ You were following her through the woods that night. You were chasing her.”

“Shut up.”

“She was terrified. That’s why she rode her bicycle out of the woods into the street. She hadn’t even been watching the road as she rode in front of us. She’d been watching the woods behind her, watching you.”

Phil was back on that road again for a moment, crouched down beside Dolores on the road beside those dark woods. The moonlight shone down on Dolores, making her blood look black in the silvery light. She had split lips and bruises, but those were older wounds—they hadn’t come from the impact with Travis’ car; they’d already been there before Travis had hit her.

“Shut up!” Grady yelled, bringing Phil’s focus back on him.

“I remember now,” Phil said, continuing anyway. “Dolores had blood on her face before we hit her. Those bruises she had, her split lips. What did you do to your little sister?”

Grady seemed ready to explode with anger. And maybe Phil was antagonizing him, pushing him too far, but there was a slight chance that he could shock Grady into admitting what he’d done to his sister. Maybe Grady had blocked some of these horrors out in his memories. Maybe he had hidden this secret so deep down into his subconscious, blaming Travis and Phil for all of this for so long now. Maybe this sudden exposure to the truth would somehow trigger Grady’s guilt and shame that he needed to tap in to.

“You did it,” Phil said softly, acting utterly shocked by Grady’s crime. “You were chasing your sister after you hurt her. She was running for her life. She was so terrified, and she knew the only way she could outrun you was on her bicycle. You had her so scared, so distracted, that she rode her bicycle right out into the street. You did it. You killed her.”

Grady’s face seemed to crumple just a bit.

Was he getting through to him?

Grady lowered his gun a little, nodding.

Phil nodded right along with him. When he spoke, his voice was even softer, compassionate. “It’s okay. You can admit it now. You can admit what you did. You need to get it out.”

Grady seemed on the verge of tears, of possibly breaking into a sob. “You’re right. I . . . I was chasing her that night. I had hurt her. Hit her. She was going to tell on me. Tell people about the things I’d been doing.”

Phil didn’t say anything—he just let Grady keep going.

“I was going to hurt her some more,” Grady said. And then his cruel smile was back, his eyes cold again. “But you two ruined all of that. You took her away from me. Oh, I had some big plans for my little sister, and you two ruined it all. I was chasing her. I even let her get to her bicycle. I wanted her to think that she had a chance of getting away.” He sighed with satisfaction. “I love the chase.”

A lump formed in Phil’s throat, and he realized in that moment that he was dealing with a true psychopath. There would be no getting through to Grady; he’d never had a chance.

Grady raised his gun back up, aiming it at Phil. “Nice speech, Phil. Time’s up. You had your chance, and now things are going to get much, much worse.”

Just then someone knocked on the front door, pounding on it.

Grady turned and fired three shots into the door.

THIRTY-NINE

Cathy

Cathy watched in horror as Grady turned and fired three shots at the front door, blowing holes in it the size of silver dollars, wood splintering away. The smell of gunpowder filled the air of the living room. Her ears were ringing from the booming gunfire. Grady hadn’t even hesitated to shoot. As soon as he heard the pounding at the front door, he’d turned and fired, surely killing anyone who was on the other side.

And then Phil did something that Cathy never would’ve expected—he rushed at Grady the moment he turned to shoot at the door. Phil had the hunting knife in his hand, and he sprinted towards Grady like a linebacker ready to sack a quarterback, his head down a little, the knife up in the air, ready to stab down at Grady.

Maybe the only thing that saved Phil was that Grady had been distracted for a moment by the pounding at the door. Grady had had such control over the situation, that he seemed shocked now that something had gone wrong. And for just a moment, Grady seemed trapped in that momentary fog of disbelief as he stared at the door, almost like he was trying to run the possibilities through his mind of who could be on the other side of that door.

Cathy didn’t know who was at their front door. For a split second she feared it might be Megan, she feared that her daughter had walked home from Barbara’s house in the darkness and the rain for some inexplicable reason. But no, that couldn’t be—Cathy had dismissed the idea of it as soon as it had entered her mind. It wasn’t Megan on the other side of the front door, couldn’t be. Megan wouldn’t have pounded on the door like that. And Megan had a key. And Cathy also couldn’t forget that Grady had said, implied at least, that he had Megan held captive somewhere, in some kind of trap.

No, Cathy didn’t know who was on the other side of the front door, but she was pretty sure of two things right now: One. Whoever was on the other side of the door was probably already dead now. Two. That person might have just saved their lives.

That was if Phil could somehow overpower the larger Grady.

Cathy had seen Phil angry before, but now she’d glimpsed such a mask of rage on his face, an expression she’d never seen from him as he rushed Grady in a last-ditch effort to save himself and his family. But even more than that, Cathy thought she’d seen a willingness to hurt Grady in Phil’s expression, a willingness to hurt the monster who had promised to hurt them. She thought she saw the capability to kill another man in her husband’s eyes in that moment.

The seconds seemed to both slow down for that moment and speed up to a blur at the same time. Phil and Grady collided as Grady was turning back around, gun in his hand, finger on the trigger, ready to shoot. Phil was stabbing down with the hunting knife as he tackled Grady, a cry of fury roaring from his throat. The two men fell to the floor as Phil sliced Grady in the shoulder, but Cathy already knew it had only been a glancing blow with the knife blade, just a slice that might’ve scratched Grady’s skin after tearing the sleeve of his shirt.

But the one good thing was that Grady had dropped his gun in the fall, and the weapon had slid across the tiled floor away from the two of them, sliding to the couch and then underneath it. Cathy wanted to run over to the couch and . . . and what? What could she do with her hands handcuffed behind her?

Grady had somehow flipped over on top of Phil and slammed Phil’s arm down on the floor, dislodging the hunting knife from his hand and stunning him. Grady punched Phil in the face, but it hadn’t been a full-force blow. Grady left Phil alone, lunging for the knife on the floor as Phil tried to crawl away. Grady got the knife. He turned over on the floor, and then he was back up to his feet in a second, madness in his eyes, a lunatic smile on his face.

But then that smile faltered.

While Grady had been scrambling for the knife, Phil had backpedaled on the floor towards the couch and grabbed the gun where it had slid underneath. He was still on the floor, on his butt, but he had Grady’s gun in his hands, aimed at the man.

Grady froze, seemingly not sure of what to do.

“Where’s Megan?” Phil growled.

Grady was still smiling, shaking his head a little. “You can’t kill me, Phil. You kill me and I promise you won’t find her. You’ll never get to her in time.”

“Where is she?” Phil yelled.

Cathy felt like running at Grady even though she was handcuffed. It was an irrational thought, and she had to fight against a mindless attempt to hurt Grady. “What did you do to her?” she yelled at the monster.

“She’s alive,” Grady said, his cold eyes flicking to her for just a second like he was trying to get through to her if he couldn’t get through to Phil. “But not for long. She doesn’t have too much time left. If you don’t find her soon . . .”

Cathy looked at Phil. He was still on the floor. He looked both scared and angry, his adrenaline possibly getting the best of him now. His arms were trembling, like the weight and responsibility of the gun was beginning to get too heavy for him. She knew that Phil had never shot a gun before; she knew he was morally against weapons of all kinds. But did Grady know that? Would Grady take a chance on rushing Phil, take a chance that Phil wouldn’t shoot? Would Grady rush at her, try to take her hostage or kill her, see if Phil would shoot? What did Grady have left to live for now?

“Shoot him in the knees,” Cathy yelled at Phil, trying to sound as convincing as she could, trying to pretend that Phil had that kind of skill with a gun.

But Grady would know, wouldn’t he? He said he had stalked them for months; he said that he had watched them and studied every aspect of their lives. He’d been the pool guy, the customer in the supermarket line next to them, the driver of the vehicle three car lengths behind them. Grady knew every detail about all three of them, knew their strengths and weaknesses.

Yet he still wasn’t willing to take the chance right now that Phil would fire and miss, or that Phil might not even shoot at all. No, he had some kind of backup plan—it all showed on his face.

Grady made his move. He neither ran towards Phil nor Cathy. Instead, he began slowly backing up towards the archway that led to the dining room and the kitchen.

“Stop!” Phil yelled, thrusting the gun towards Grady.

“Shoot him!” Cathy screamed.

Grady just smiled, backing up even farther, the hunting knife still in his hand. “You don’t have much time, Phil. I’m not lying about that.”

Phil managed to keep the gun aimed at Grady as he got up to his feet.

But then Grady bolted into the kitchen, running towards the door that led out to the garage.

Phil stood there for a moment, the gun aimed at the archway—but Grady was gone. He ran over to Cathy with Grady’s gun still in his hand.

“I’m okay,” Cathy told him. “Go after him! He’s going to go after Megan. You can’t let him get away. Go find Megan!”

For a second Phil seemed lost in indecision. She knew he wanted to help her, make sure she was safe, but he needed to find Megan.

“I’ll be okay,” she told him. “Go get Megan. Get our daughter.”

Phil was off and running towards the kitchen.

Cathy let out a sigh of relief, tears blurring her vision, and she couldn’t even wipe them away. She looked at the front door. She needed to get it open and see if the person on the other side was still alive.

FORTY

Phil

Phil was already questioning his decisions as he ran into the kitchen. He should’ve shot Grady in the leg. He should have blown out his kneecaps like he had threatened to do to them. But what if he had missed? What if he couldn’t shoot and Grady saw that in his eyes? What if Grady would’ve rushed him in those few seconds of their standoff? Would he have pulled the trigger? He liked to think he would have, but he didn’t know for sure.

What if Grady had left the safety on? Phil wouldn’t even know for sure. But Grady would’ve sensed Phil’s ignorance when it came to guns if the safety was on and Phil hadn’t switched it off, so the safety had to be off. Besides, Grady had just used the gun to shoot at the front door, so the safety had to be off. All Phil had to do was pull the trigger now. Grady had fired three times, so how many bullets did that leave in the gun? Phil didn’t know what kind of gun this was, but it wasn’t a revolver, he knew that much. This gun had a magazine in the handle, but Phil didn’t know how many bullets this magazine held. Six? Nine? Fourteen?

Obviously Grady knew that the safety was off, and he knew that there were still plenty of bullets left in the gun—if not, then he surely would’ve rushed at him. Instead, he had run for the kitchen, for the door that led out to the garage.

He had other plans now—Megan.

Even if Phil wanted to shoot Grady, he couldn’t take the chance of killing him at this time, not without first finding out where Megan was. Where could Megan be? Was Grady even telling the truth about that? Had Grady gone to Barbara’s house earlier before he’d come to their house tonight? Grady already knew where Megan was tonight, he’d heard Cathy and him talking about taking Megan to Barbara’s house when he’d been there earlier. But maybe Grady was bluffing. Maybe there was a chance he hadn’t gone down to Barbara’s house earlier. Maybe there was still a chance to save Megan. A chance she was okay.

Phil heard the garage door going up as he hurried through the kitchen. He stopped at the counter to grab his car keys, the gun still in his right hand. He ran to the door that led out to the garage, and then stopped suddenly. What if Grady had opened the garage door as a trick? What if he was waiting on the other side of the kitchen wall, ready to attack Phil and catch him by surprise as he rushed out the doorway? He had to be ready for that.

You’ve got to think!

Phil heard Grady’s car starting up outside. He rushed out into the garage, flying down the steps to the concrete floor. He looked out at the open garage door as he ran to his Lexus. It was raining out there, and a light illuminated the driveway through the downpour as Grady’s car bolted into view, speeding down the long driveway towards the street.

Phil got into his car. He started it up, shifted into reverse, stomped the gas pedal down and backed down the driveway, flipping his headlights on as he reversed. He saw in the rearview mirror that Grady’s sedan was already in the street. But Grady wasn’t heading the way that led out of the subdivision, he was turned the other way, towards the end of the road, towards Barbara’s house.

As Phil reversed out into the street and whipped the steering wheel, his car sliding, he couldn’t help but notice the cop car parked in the street during a lightning flash. The cop car had its parking lights on, the car idling. But there was no one inside the car.

It had been a police officer who had been pounding on their front door.

And Grady had shot the officer.

Was the police officer dead? Wounded? He wasn’t in the cop car.

For a second Phil thought about going to the police officer and trying to get help. But he couldn’t take that chance. He couldn’t waste those precious seconds. In those seconds Grady could get to Megan and kill her.

FORTY-ONE

Cathy

Cathy wasted no time hurrying to the front door. She didn’t bother trying to get to a phone, there was no way she could dial it correctly, and even if she did, she would have to yell into it. Maybe she could use the phone later, but her first priority was to check on whoever was on the other side of their front door.

She managed to get the door unlocked and then opened. And there, crumpled up on their front porch, was a police officer. He had blood all over the side of his neck. There was more blood on his left arm and chest. The blood had leaked down underneath his body, pooling on the concrete porch floor underneath him. It was an alarming amount of blood. For a moment she thought he was dead, but then she saw his chest moving slightly, and she heard his shallow but labored breathing.

Cathy crouched down beside him and read his nametag: Wells. She recognized him—he was the police officer who had come to their house last Saturday night after they’d been followed home.

“Officer Wells,” she yelled over the pouring rain. “Can you hear me?”

Wells’ eyes fluttered, then opened all the way. He stared at her like he was confused about what had happened and where he was.

“Don’t try to move,” she told him. “You’ve been shot.”

He closed his eyes again and swallowed hard. “I’m too late,” he whispered.

Cathy felt more tears in her eyes, but she forced herself not to cry—she needed to be able to see. “No. You saved us. A man was in our house. He tried to kill us. I need to get these handcuffs off.” She turned a little, showing him that her hands were shackled behind her.

Wells opened his eyes and then closed them again, struggling to stay conscious. He moved his right hand to his belt, grunting in pain, clenching his teeth. His left arm was drenched in blood, and she wasn’t even sure he could move it. He pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket and dropped them down onto the stone floor beside him.

And then he passed out.

“Officer Wells! Can you hear me?”

No reaction now.

She couldn’t help him until she got loose. He must have a handcuff key on his key ring; it must be why he had pulled them out. Unless he wasn’t even aware of what he was doing. Maybe he had the handcuff key in his car somewhere, and he was giving her the keys so she could open his car.

If that was the case then she was screwed.

But then she saw a short fat key on the ring that was separate from the other keys. That had to be it.

Lightning lit up the churning sky every few seconds as a waterfall of rain poured off of the edge of the porch roof. Thunder rumbled and it felt like the ground shook. The wind was raging now, howling around the eaves of the house. Cool blasts of air were hitting her in waves. She turned around with her back to Wells and fumbled around blindly for the handcuff key on the ring.

It felt like the seconds were ticking by way too fast, but she forced herself to slow down. She picked up the key on the ring and maneuvered it in her fingers to stick the fat key down into the cuff on her left wrist. At least she had enough slack on the handcuffs to move her hands; Phil hadn’t tightened them down too much after he had clamped them down on her wrists. Even though the cuffs were loose, they weren’t loose enough for her to pull her hands out of them—no way in hell was that going to happen. Her only chance was this key.

She finally managed to get the key into the slot on the cuff. She tried to twist around as much as she could to see what she was doing, but a sharp pain in her back prevented her from doing that. She was going to have to do this blind.

And then a terrible thought struck her as she struggled with the key. Would the handcuff key that Officer Wells had work on these handcuffs? Did handcuff keys work for all handcuffs, or did each set of handcuffs have its own specific key? It seemed to her that all the keys should be the same, but she couldn’t be sure about it. And even if that was true, then was there a difference between police handcuffs?

And just at the moment that she was beginning to doubt it was the right key for these handcuffs, she heard a click and felt the handcuff break free on her left wrist.

She flew into action, turning around and unlocking the other cuff on her wrist. Now she needed to help Officer Wells. He had a walkie-talkie on his shoulder. She pushed the button on the side of it and bent down to talk into it.

“Hello!” she yelled into the speaker.

A blast of static answered her back, then a woman’s voice spoke in police jargon, codes that she didn’t understand.

“Officer down!” she yelled after she pressed the button down again. She didn’t know if that was the correct thing to say, but she’d heard it on cop shows, and it was the first thing that came to her mind. “Officer Wells has been shot. He’s still alive, but he’s hurt pretty bad.”

Another quick blast of static, and then she heard the woman’s voice again: “Who is this?”

Cathy pressed the button again. “You need to send an ambulance and backup to 912 Winding Oaks Way in The Oaks subdivision. Please hurry.”

More static and squawking.

But Cathy ignored it. She saw the gun in Wells’ holster. She knew she was probably going to get into major trouble for this, but she needed to think about Megan and Phil right now. She pulled the gun out of the holster, not even sure how to use it.

She stood up and ran for the kitchen to get the keys to her SUV.

FORTY-TWO

Phil

Phil followed Grady’s sedan down the street through the thunderstorm. Even though Grady had a head start, Phil was catching up to him quickly. He couldn’t let Grady get to Barbara’s house; he couldn’t let him get inside, he couldn’t let him get to Megan.

He saw the lights of Barbara’s house in the distance, blurry through the wet windshield. They were coming up to her house so quickly, but then it almost seemed like Grady was slowing down.

Was he slowing down purposely?

And then everything happened so fast. Phil knew he was speeding, driving too fast, in danger of losing control. It seemed like Grady had slammed on his brakes well before reaching the edge of Barbara’s property, where the thick weeds gave way to her manicured St. Augustine lawn. But Grady had stopped so quickly that Phil slammed into the back of his car, buckling the trunk in a little, the trunk lid popping up.

Grady’s car spun sideways on the slick street, then overcorrected and veered back to the left, jumping the curb and driving across Barbara’s grass. Grady’s car plowed into the corner of Barbara’s garage, the car stopping abruptly.

Phil, following right behind Grady, slammed into the back of his car again, but he had turned to the left just in time so that he just clipped the corner of the bumper instead of a direct hit into the trunk again. The front bumper of his Lexus tore part of the bumper off from the back of Grady’s sedan. Phil’s car came to a stop on the grass next to Grady’s car, his headlights shining on the driver’s side door.

The airbag had gone off in the collision, a white wall suddenly blinding Phil for a split second. The bag knocked him back. He hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt, so the impact from the airbag felt like a punch to his face.

Woozy for a moment, Phil pushed the deflated airbag out of his way. He suddenly felt light-headed, that surreal feeling that came when a shocking event occurred.

But he needed to focus, clear the cobwebs from his mind before Grady went into Barbara’s house after Megan, or came for his gun.

The gun.

Phil grabbed the gun out of the center console. He was surprised that the gun hadn’t gone flying in the crash, but it had been wedged pretty securely in the little pocket there.

He opened his door and stumbled out into the downpour, his eyes on Grady’s sedan the whole time. The trunk was crumpled in, the lid up all the way. Steam poured out of the front of his car, rising up along the corner of the garage in the orange glow of the parking lights.

Phil kept his eyes on the driver’s door, his gun aimed at it, ready to shoot Grady this time.

But Grady wasn’t getting out of the car.

Was he hurt?

Phil took a few steps closer, and then he saw a splash of bright pink inside the trunk of Grady’s car. There was a person curled up inside the trunk, a girl with dark hair, a girl wearing a bright pink hoodie . . . Megan’s hoodie that she’d just bought for her birthday.

Oh God, no . . .

Phil felt his legs weaken, felt his stomach drop. The world of rain and wind seemed to darken all around him, that darkness creeping in at the edges of everything, creating tunnel vision where all he saw was the girl in the trunk of the car.

Megan.

His daughter’s name was on his lips, but he couldn’t say the word. He couldn’t make it real. Megan was in Grady’s trunk. She’d been in his trunk the whole time. And she wasn’t moving.

Was she dead?

Maybe she was just hurt, knocked out from the impact when Phil had slammed into the trunk.

“You did it, Phil!” Grady shouted, giddy with glee. “You killed your own daughter!”

Phil’s eyes darted to the driver’s door but Grady wasn’t there. He had gotten out through the passenger door. He stood there, leaning against his car, his arms on the roof, both hands wrapped around the handle of a gun. He was a dark shadow in the rain, but Phil could see that insane smile on his face.

“Yeah, I’ve got another gun,” Grady said. “You think I only had one gun? You don’t think I was ready for this? You don’t think I had every possible scenario planned out?”

Phil didn’t answer. He realized that in the shock of seeing his daughter in the trunk of Grady’s car, he had lowered his gun—it was now pointed down at the soggy ground.

“I told you,” Grady said. “You had your chance. All you had to do was kill your wife, and I was going to let you and your daughter go. But no, you had to chase me and slam into the back of my car.”

But Grady had slowed down, Phil thought. He had slowed down on purpose so I could ram into the back of him.

“You just can’t stop killing, can you?” Grady laughed.

Phil knew that he should raise his gun back up and aim it at Grady, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of Megan now. How come Grady was so sure Megan was dead and not knocked out?

The only way Grady absolutely knew that Megan was dead was if he’d already killed her hours ago.

Grady had killed Megan before he’d come to their house earlier tonight. He’d stuffed her body in the trunk of his car. He had let them build up hope that Megan could be saved, while he’d known the whole time that she was dead.

“I would love to let you suffer longer,” Grady said from beside his car, his gun still aimed right at Phil. “I have another surprise waiting for you, and I’d love to show it to you, but I’m going to have to end your life now.”

Phil looked at Grady, at the gun aimed at him.

A surprise?

There was a rumbling noise—but it wasn’t thunder.

Grady heard that same rumbling sound . . . but he heard it a few seconds too late.

A sudden flash of light illuminated Grady as Cathy turned the headlights of her SUV on and then slammed into Grady before he even had a chance to turn and aim his gun at her, before he even had a chance to move. Cathy’s Soccer Mom Tank pinned Grady between the front of her SUV and the side of his car. The gun slipped from his hand on impact. The top half of his body slammed back so violently from the crash that his spine must have snapped, and then he slumped forward right onto the hood of the SUV, a fountain of blood erupting from his mouth, spraying onto the hood.

FORTY-THREE

Phil

Phil jumped out of the way just in time when Cathy slammed into the side of Grady’s car, crushing Grady in between both vehicles, and pushing both his and Grady’s cars two feet away from the garage .

Phil dived down onto the wet grass and mud to get out of the way of his sliding car, but he managed to hold on to Grady’s gun the whole time. He got to his feet and ran around the back of his Lexus towards his wife’s SUV. Her airbag had erupted, and she was slumped forward in the seat.

A quick glance at Grady and Phil knew he was dead; if not dead, then in the process of dying. He was pitched forward, bent over the hood of Cathy’s SUV, the top half of his body twisted around a little like he’d been in the process of turning around. The fountain of dark blood sprayed across the hood was already being washed away by the rain.

Cathy . . . was she dead?

She was moving a little as he opened the driver’s door.

She pushed the deflated airbag away, sitting upright, a dazed look in her eyes. White powder from the airbag floated all around her. There was blood running out of her nose and the corner of her mouth. Her hair was messy from the impact.

“Cathy!” Phil yelled.

“Mmm.”

“Are you okay?”

She looked at Phil like she was struggling to remember what she’d just been doing, how she had gotten here.

“Cathy?” he said again, his voice lower and softer.

“Yeah,” she answered. Her eyes darted to the front of her SUV, then widened as everything came back to her. “Is he . . .?”

“Yes. He has to be.” Even if Grady wasn’t dead yet, there was no way he was unpinning himself from between the two vehicles.

“Megan,” Cathy snapped. “Where’s Megan?” She looked right at Phil. “Did you find her?”

“Cathy . . .”

She unbuckled her seatbelt and practically spilled out of her SUV, her legs a little unsteady. Phil helped guide her with a gentle hand on her arm.

“Where is she?” Cathy asked.

Phil started crying. He couldn’t help it.

Cathy stared at him, and then she shook her head no, refusing to believe . . . to accept.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said through choked sobs.

“Where is she?” Cathy asked again.

“Grady’s car. The trunk.”

Cathy barreled forward.

“Wait . . .”

But Cathy wasn’t waiting. She bolted to the trunk of the sedan, and then she stopped suddenly when she saw the flash of bright pink—Megan’s hoodie.

Phil was going to go after Cathy. He was going to hug her, try to console her, try to tell her that everything was going to be okay. But he couldn’t move; he couldn’t make himself do any of that. Emptiness overtook him, a sudden void of all emotion.

Cathy stood ramrod straight in the rain, staring into the trunk of the crashed car. Phil was afraid his wife was in shock now, afraid that she was going to faint.

And then Cathy turned around with a strange expression on her face, a mixture of sadness and hope. “It’s not her.”

For a moment Phil wasn’t sure he’d heard Cathy’s words correctly.

“That’s not Megan,” Cathy said again, excited now, yelling over the rain.

Phil wondered if Cathy really was in shock now, her mind shutting down as she refused to believe that her daughter was dead.

“It’s not her,” Cathy said again, even louder this time.

Even though the rational side of Phil’s mind couldn’t make himself believe, a part of him propelled himself forward, wanting to grasp on to this thin strand of hope, wanting to join his wife in the bliss of shock.

“Who?” Phil said as he stood beside his wife. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know. But look.”

Now that Phil was on this side of Grady’s car and seeing things at a new angle, he had a different view of the girl. He could see part of her face now . . . and it wasn’t Megan. But the hoodie, it looked just like Megan’s.

“Megan has to be in Barbara’s house,” Cathy said.

Phil looked at the house just beyond their collection of crashed cars. Even after the crash into her home, Barbara hadn’t come outside to see what had happened. And now Phil was getting a nauseous feeling back in his stomach again.

A surprise waiting for you. That’s what Grady had said.

No . . . don’t give me hope and then take Megan away from me again.

Phil was off and running around the rear of Cathy’s SUV, and then up the driveway to Barbara’s front door. Cathy was right behind him, splashing through puddles.

They both reached the front door together. Phil pounded on the door with the edge of his fist while Cathy rang the doorbell.

“Hello!” Cathy yelled. “Barbara! It’s us! It’s Cathy and Phil!”

Phil checked the door handle—it was unlocked. Normally he wouldn’t just barge into someone’s home, but this was an emergency. He pushed the door open and rushed inside the living room. He could tell immediately that something was wrong. The TV was on and there was a deck of cards laid out on the coffee table, hands dealt. But no one was playing. A can of soda and a cup of coffee sat untouched on coasters. This was an evening interrupted, and now Barbara and Megan weren’t here.

Maybe they were hiding somewhere in the house. Maybe the crash had scared them. Maybe they were waiting until they were sure it was safe to come out again.

“Hello?” Phil yelled. “It’s safe! You can come out now!”

Cathy called Megan’s name as Phil rushed towards the dining room and then the kitchen, leaving wet footprints behind. Cathy headed up the stairs to the bedrooms, both of them splitting up their search.

The kitchen looked a lot like the living room, like Megan and Barbara had been interrupted in the middle of something. There was some food and drinks on the counters, but the stuff left out almost looked offensive and wrong in Barbara’s orderly home.

Phil moved around the kitchen, nervous energy controlling him. He was moving just to move as he shouted for his daughter. He checked irrational places like the cupboards and the pantry. But he had to do something; he couldn’t just stand there helplessly in the kitchen and not try to look for Megan. He couldn’t admit to himself that she might not even be in this house. She might have been taken earlier in the evening, taken somewhere by Grady . . . taken somewhere where time was running out.

“Phil!” Cathy screamed from upstairs.

Phil’s heart jumped in his chest, a painful thump that stopped in mid-beat. He was afraid he was going to have a heart attack, a massive and sudden heart attack, his heart finally failing as the mounted stress became too much for him to bear.

Before he even realized what he was doing, he was running through the living room, and then up the stairs. He rushed down a hallway towards the master bedroom, passing other bedrooms along the way, doors wide open.

“Phil!” Cathy yelled again.

He heard the panic in her voice, the fear.

Oh God, she found Megan’s body.

Phil rushed into the master bedroom and then stopped when he was three steps inside. Cathy stood next to the large bed where a body was sprawled out, arms and legs wide, blood everywhere.

“It’s Barbara,” Cathy said, already crying.

Phil walked closer to the bed on weak and rubbery legs.

Barbara stared up at the ceiling with wide eyes. Phil thought her eyes would’ve been milky with death, but they were bright, even a little moist, like she was somehow still alive but immobile, staring blankly up at the ceiling. But there was no way she could be alive because her throat was a bloody mess. And even with all of the gore, Phil could see the huge gash in her neck, the flesh parted at least two or three inches, a deep crevice there now, her head nearly separated. Blood had soaked her white blouse, her bare arms, her dark bed cover, the blood shiny and sticky on the fabric.

Cathy darted to the master bathroom, and for some strange reason Phil thought she’d run in there to vomit, but then he realized that she was still looking for Megan.

That spurred Phil into action. Once again, they split up the task of the search. Phil looked inside Barbara’s walk-in closet. Even her closet was as neat and orderly as the rest of her home, and that made it obvious fairly quickly that Megan wasn’t hiding anywhere in here.

Megan’s dead body wasn’t stuffed in here, his mind whispered.

He went back to the foot of the bed and looked underneath it, praying that Megan had somehow gotten away from Grady, that she was hiding underneath the bed, trembling in shock, but alive.

Lightning flashed outside again, bright in the windows for a second even with the lamp lit up next to the bed. Thunder rumbled not even five seconds later.

“The other rooms,” Phil told Cathy as she came out of the bathroom.

They each took a bedroom, checking every possible hiding place.

Moments later they were back downstairs in the living room where they had started.

“There’s no blood anywhere,” Phil said, letting his words trail off, hoping the lack of blood was some kind of good omen, a sign that Grady hadn’t killed their daughter.

But maybe Grady had taken Megan somewhere, hiding her in what he’d called some kind of trap, a place where time was running out if she wasn’t rescued soon. But where? Not in Grady’s car. Another girl was there. Who? Phil didn’t know, and he didn’t have time right now to ponder the question.

Time was running out.

They had checked everywhere in the house. Phil looked around the living room, then he entered the kitchen again, Cathy right behind him. He saw the door that led out to the garage.

“The garage,” Cathy said at the same moment Phil saw the door.

They rushed out to the garage.

Phil swatted at the light switches. A row of fluorescent lights on the ceiling flickered for a second and then lit up the garage in a bright, harsh light. Like the rest of the house, the garage was neat and orderly.

Barbara’s car was parked on the farther side of the garage as if another car might one day park next to hers. Against the far wall there were plastic tubs and cardboard boxes stacked up next to two metal shelves standing next to each other. Closer to the garage door was some gardening equipment: rakes, shovels, hoes, shears, pruners, a large wagon and a cheap wheelbarrow.

Nowhere for Megan to hide in here.

The car.

Phil thought of the other girl stuffed in the trunk of Grady’s car. He hurried over to the small car and peered in the windows. He tried the doors. They were locked.

“The keys,” he told Cathy.

She was already running back into the kitchen like she’d thought of the car keys a split second before he’d said the words.

He hoped to God that Barbara didn’t still have her keys on her, stuffed down into the pockets of her jeans.

No . . . not Barbara. Her keys would be hung back up where they belonged. Things in Barbara’s house had a place, and everything was in its place.

Cathy was back. She tossed the keys across the garage to Phil.

He caught them and pressed the button on the key fob to unlock the doors and the trunk. The trunk lid popped up with a loud click that echoed throughout the garage.

Phil was at the trunk in a flash. There was no time for praying right now, no time for wondering. He just opened the trunk and froze.

Cathy was beside him a few seconds later, her breath held. And then there was an exhale from her lungs.

Megan wasn’t in the trunk. The carpet inside the trunk looked as new as the day Barbara had bought this car; it looked like nothing had ever been inside the trunk.

“Where did he take her?” Cathy moaned.

Phil shook his head as a wave of helplessness like he never could’ve imagined washed over him. But he couldn’t succumb to that—he needed to think. “Grady said he had her somewhere, a place where time was running out for her if we didn’t find her soon.”

It was apparent that he didn’t need to remind Cathy of Grady’s threat; he saw that the warning was playing itself in her mind like a loop.

They went back inside the house.

“She must not be here,” Phil finally said. “He must’ve taken her somewhere else.” Had Grady taken Megan to the same place where he’d brought the other girl from? Was there some kind of clue on the dead girl? Was there a clue in Grady’s car? A clue on Grady’s body?

Phil was about to suggest that they look in Grady’s car again, even the trunk where the other dead girl was; maybe they could find some kind of clue. But then he saw Cathy staring at something. He turned to see what she was looking at.

“What is it?” he asked her.

“What about out there?” she said, pointing at the vertical blinds. “Out by the pool.”

They hadn’t checked that area. Phil hadn’t even considered it.

Phil was at the vertical blinds a few seconds later, ripping them to the side while Cathy flipped up all the switches next to the door. Lights recessed in the back porch ceiling illuminated the whole area. Even lights inside the pool came on where Megan floated.

Barbara’s large, rectangular pool was just beyond the back patio which ran most of the length of the back of the house. The back patio was a large area with block columns that had been coated in stucco, everything painted a warm sea-green. A massive screened enclosure covered the pool.

Phil rushed out to the pool, the rain dribbling down on him through the screened enclosure.

“Megan!” Cathy screamed, running right behind Phil.

Megan was balanced precariously on a big inflatable plastic float. She was on her stomach, hogtied, her mouth gagged with a rag tied around her head. She was close to the edge of the float, her body crushing down an arm of it along with the built-in drink holder. Her head was somewhat propped up on the float’s headrest, her face turned towards them, her hair matted to her face from the rain, her eyes wide with shock and terror. She was fighting to stay on top of the float, only seconds away from falling into the water.

Phil jumped into the water and swam to Megan, grabbing the float and pulling it back to the shallow water and the steps. “I’ve got you, baby. You’re okay.”

Cathy was in the water with him, and she was already untying the gag while Phil pulled on the knots in the ropes.

Megan sobbed as soon as the wadded-up gag was out of her mouth.

“You’re okay,” Phil said again, and now he realized he was crying. “You’re okay, baby.”

As soon as Megan was untied, Phil scooped her up into his arms. She was too old and too big for him to carry, but he did it anyway, struggling up the steps to the pool deck, the water running off of him, his clothes heavy and adding to the weight, his shoes squishy. His back was already tweaking with spasms, but he didn’t care—he was going to carry his daughter to safety.

Megan clung to him, crying harder, her body racked with sobs.

“You’re okay,” Phil said again like a mantra, trying to implant those words in her mind. “You’re okay now, baby.”

“He said . . . said he was coming back for me,” Megan sobbed as Phil laid her down on a PVC piped patio chair that was under the porch roof and out of the rain.

“He’s gone,” Cathy assured Megan, hugging her.

“The cops got him?” Megan asked Cathy, searching her eyes.

Phil and Cathy glanced at each other for just a second.

“He’s gone,” Cathy told Megan again, holding her. “He won’t ever bother you again. I promise.”

In the distance Phil could hear police sirens.

FORTY-FOUR

Phil

Thursday

The next day Phil and Cathy were in Megan’s hospital room. She hadn’t received any serious physical wounds from Grady, but her doctor recommended that she stay overnight just for observation.

Cathy told Phil that she was staying the night with Megan in the hospital room. Phil went home and packed an overnight bag for the both of them, along with a cooler of drinks and a few snacks. He stayed in the hospital room with them until eleven o’clock, and then he went home again, promising to be back in the morning.

Before he left the hospital room, he saw it in Cathy’s eyes—was he going home to drink?

When Phil got home, he poured out every bottle of alcohol he had in the house. That look in Cathy’s eyes had destroyed him in those few moments, humiliated him—he never wanted to see that look from her again, and now he knew he wouldn’t. The doctors had treated his minor wounds to his face from Grady’s punch, but Phil washed his face again, staring at the damage done to it for a moment—the bruising around his eye and cheek, the split in his lips which reminded him so much of Dolores’ split lips.

He lay on the couch for a few hours with the TV on after he had cleaned up. He barely got any sleep, mostly just fitful bouts here and there that were riddled with nightmares. He wanted a drink so bad, something to calm his nerves, but he wasn’t going to give in to the temptation anymore.

Never again.

Phil had come back to Megan’s hospital room this morning. Megan was dressed in regular clothes and sitting up in bed. He brought her a balloon and a stuffed animal that he’d bought in the gift shop.

Dr. Patel came in an hour later to give his final okay. He had a prescription written out for some sedatives. Phil would get the pills from the pharmacy, but he’d only give them to Megan if she absolutely needed them.

“All the tests came back okay,” Dr. Patel said.

“Good,” Megan said. “Can I leave now?”

They all laughed.

Phil and Cathy asked to talk to the doctor outside the room for a moment. When they were down the hall, tucked away near a wall and out of earshot of anyone else, Dr. Patel assured them that Megan hadn’t been sexually abused in any way. She didn’t have any physical wounds, but she would probably have some emotional ones for quite some time. But Phil could help with that—he knew a great child psychologist that Megan could see for as long as she needed to. And of course he and Cathy would be there for her, too. Phil promised himself that he would be there for his family more than he used to be.

Police officers had taken Megan’s statement at the scene last night. And then, at the hospital, two detectives had taken all of their statements again. No charges were being filed even though the police department was not too happy about Cathy taking Wells’ service pistol with her when she drove down the street and slammed into Grady, but they seemed to be willing to overlook that considering the circumstances, and the fact that she had saved Wells’ life by calling for an ambulance and for backup.

Dr. Patel came back to the room with them and wished Megan well, and then he left. Cathy was already busy getting their things together, packing away the stuffed animal Phil had bought into Megan’s bag. She tied the balloon to the straps of the duffel bag. Phil hurried out into the hall to catch up to the doctor before he got too far away.

“Dr. Patel,” Phil called.

The doctor turned around with a patient smile on his face.

“I was wondering if I could ask a favor.”

Dr. Patel waited for Phil to continue.

“Is there any way I could see Officer Wells?”

“He’s still in critical condition. And he’s only supposed to receive family members right now.”

“He saved our lives,” Phil told him.

Dr. Patel sighed, already giving in. “Just for a moment. Just a quick peek.”

“I promise.”

The doctor gave Phil the room number.

Phil took the elevator up to the sixth floor. He headed down the hall of the intensive care unit and found Wells’ room. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open a little more so he could creep inside. The room was murky, only the lights of the machines were on. Wells looked terrible. There were tubes and wires hooked up to him and several machines. He had a big bandage on the side of his neck, and a smaller one on the side of his head. His left arm was wrapped in what looked like a soft cast. He was either sleeping right now or unconscious. He seemed to be barely clinging to life.

“He’ll make it.”

Phil jumped, turning around to see a tall and muscular man in his late thirties standing in the doorway right behind him. He was dressed in jeans and a Polo shirt.

“I’m Clay Penski,” the man said. “I work with Wells.”

“Oh, you’re a police officer,” Phil said, breathing a sigh of relief.

“You can say cop,” Clay joked. “We don’t mind.”

Phil just smiled. “I’m not really supposed to be in here.”

Clay nodded knowingly. “Me either, but looks like the doc has been giving out special privileges to a few people.”

Phil glanced back at Wells, then at Clay again. “He saved my life. He saved my wife and daughter too.”

“He’s a good cop. A good man.”

“You sure he’s going to be okay?”

“He lost a lot of blood, had some internal injuries, but the doc thinks he’ll pull through just fine. He’s a tough one.”

Phil just nodded. “It was good to meet you, Clay. I need to catch up with my wife and daughter.”

Phil left the room. He’d only gotten a few steps down the hall before he heard Clay call him.

“Mr. Stanton?”

Phil stopped and turned around, a little surprised that Clay knew his name.

“Sorry,” Clay said. “I know who you are and what happened last night. Everybody does.”

Phil just waited. Obviously Clay had more to say.

Clay walked up to Phil and spoke in a low voice so no one else would overhear. “I just wanted you to know that Carlos’ daughter was already dead before you hit the car.”

Phil felt the stinging of tears in his eyes, a lump forming in his throat. He kept his mouth closed tight, clenching his teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Clay said. “I just wanted you to know that you didn’t kill her.” He shrugged. “I thought it might help a little.”

“Thank you,” Phil said. He wasn’t sure if it made him feel that much better, but then he realized that it did. “Thank you,” he said again. “It really does help.”

Clay just nodded—he didn’t seem to have anything else to say.

Phil turned and walked towards the elevator doors. He was sure now, more than ever, that everything was going to be okay.

EPILOGUE

Two months later

Phil and Cathy’s home stood alone among the empty lots of this section of their subdivision. Barbara’s house, the only other home in Phase III of The Oaks subdivision that Phil and Cathy were beginning to believe would never be completed, stood dark and empty down the street. It was going to be a while before anyone bought Barbara’s house after what had happened there. Bad news traveled fast.

Phil and Cathy’s home was dark. It was late. The sky was clear with stars twinkling everywhere. A thin sliver of the moon offered little extra light. The air had turned a little cooler; the hint of winter on the way—there really wasn’t an autumn in this area of Florida, the weather went right from hot and humid to a few cold nights here and there.

Inside the house, Phil was awakened by a familiar rumbling sound—the white pickup truck idling outside their home, its powerful motor rumbling. He almost jumped out of bed to grab the phone, but then he had to stop himself.

It wasn’t the truck. Carlos’ pickup truck had been demolished in the crash after the police chase, and then eventually junked. No, the truck wasn’t out there. Grady was dead. It was over. All of it was over.

Phil lay there for a moment, his eyes wide open in the darkness. Still, he felt an itch gnawing at him to get up and look out the window. He looked at Cathy. He could tell she was sleeping, her breaths deep and steady.

After another few moments he got out of bed as quietly as he could and walked over to the bedroom window, unable to ignore the impulse to check. It couldn’t hurt to check, could it?

There was nobody out there. No pickup truck. No gray sedan.

Nothing.

He didn’t hear the rumbling sound that he’d heard in his dream.

Phil went back to the bed and stood beside it, sipping from a bottle of water on the end table.

“You okay?” Cathy asked in a sleep-heavy voice.

He must’ve woken her up when he’d gotten out of bed. Maybe she was sleeping as lightly as he was nowadays. “Yeah. Just getting some water.”

Phil lay back down in bed, and Cathy snuggled up closer to him.

• • •

Outside Phil and Cathy’s home, as if materializing out of the night itself, Carlos walked out of the weeds and brush across the street. He stood at the edge of the street, watching Phil and Cathy’s house.

Phil and Cathy—they were the people who’d gotten his daughter killed. Grady had wanted them, and he’d killed Carlos’ daughter to get to them.

This was their fault.

Carlos started walking across the street towards Phil and Cathy’s house . . .

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Thank you so much for reading my book! I hope you enjoyed it.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Mark Lukens has been writing since the second grade when his teacher called his parents in for a conference because the ghost story he’d written had her a little concerned.

Since then he’s had several stories published and four screenplays optioned by producers in Hollywood. One script is in development to become a film. He’s the author of many bestselling books including: Ancient Enemy, Darkwind: Ancient Enemy 2, Descendants of Magic, The Summoning, Night Terrors, Sightings, The Exorcist’s Apprentice, What Lies Below, Devil’s Island, The Darwin Effect, Razorblade Dreams, Ghost Town: a novella, and A Dark Collection: 12 Scary Stories. He’s a proud member of the Horror Writers Association.

He grew up in Daytona Beach, Florida. But after many travels and adventures, he settled down near Tampa, Florida with his wonderful wife and son . . . and a stray cat they adopted.

He loves to hear from readers! You can find him on Facebook here:

https://www.facebook.com/Mark-Lukens-Books-670337796318510/

You can follow him on Twitter @marklukensbooks

His blog is: www.marklukensbooks.wordpress.com

He can be reached via email at mark@marklukensbooks.com

Ancient Enemy . . . it wants things. You have to give it what it wants.

www.amazon.com/dp/B00FD4SP8M

And don’t forget the sequel to Ancient Enemy . . .

www.amazon.com/dp/B01K42JBGW

Twelve horror stories . . . one for each month of the year.

www.amazon.com/dp/B00JENAGLC

How do you hide from a psychic serial killer? That’s just what Tara must do when the killer who slaughtered her family finds her again.

www.amazon.com/dp/B00M66IU3U

Four film school students investigate a remote cabin where an alien abduction reportedly took place many years ago . . . but they encounter much more than they ever could’ve imagined.

www.amazon.com/dp/B00VAI31KW

Ryan wakes up in a motel room with a bag of stolen money, bullet hole scars on his chest, and no memory of his past. His only clue is an address in a small Oregon town where all of the horrifying answers are waiting for him.

www.amazon.com/dp/B00HNEOHKU

After a tragic accident, seventeen-year-old Danny goes to live with his father who is an exorcist . . . but their first case together will reveal mind-blowing secrets that will change Danny’s life forever.

www.amazon.com/dp/B00YYF1E5C

Six strangers wake up in a ghost town where they must figure out the rules in a twisted game before it’s too late.

www.amazon.com/dp/B00LEZRF7G

After suffering from debilitating nightmares, Pam returns to her father’s estate to uncover the horrifying source of those dreams.

www.amazon.com/dp/B0143LADEY

And please check out my latest collection of short stories.

www.amazon.com/dp/B076B7W252