She switched off her living room lamp and peered outside. A light glowed in the Wilsons’ front window.
Air stalled in her chest. It hadn’t been on before. The house had been dark since the police wrapped up.
Whiskers let out a low growl, his fur standing up along his spine.
She bent and scooped him up. “I feel it too.”
The light suddenly went out. A few seconds later, deeper in the house, another flared to life. She moved behind the drape, watching it move from room to room. Systematic.
Then the pattern broke. Darkness swallowed the house again. Until a light went on upstairs. A silhouette paused in the center window. It seemed to stare straight at her house. Or at her.
Erica jumped back, heart hammering.
Five seconds passed. Ten.
When she dared to look again, the figure was gone.
She rushed to the island, grabbed her phone, and switched off her kitchen light as she returned to the window. As she watched the same on-and-off pattern move through the second floor, she dialed.
“Please answer,” she pleaded in a whisper as it rang. “Oh, thank goodness,” she blurted when Coop picked up. “Someone’s in the Wilson house.”
She heard silence. Not long but enough for dread to pool in her stomach.
“The evidence team didn’t say anything about going again,” he said, as if to himself. Then his tone sharpened. “Are you sure?”
“I saw him in the upstairs window,” she snapped, panic edging her voice. “And lights turning off and on.”
His response softened. “I’m on my way. Doors locked. Stay inside.”
“They are. I am. Please hurry.”
“I’m calling in units. I’ll be there in ten.” He paused for half a second. “Make it seven.”
He disconnected, and she wished he’d stayed on the line, like a 911 operator would, keeping her calm. All she could do was wait, watching more lights and more passing shadows.
Her pulse ticked off the seconds. She checked her phone at two minutes and again at four. When she next checked, six minutes had passed—an eternity.
She peeked around the drapes again. She held her breath, counting to ten, but the house had gone still and dark once more.
“Hurry, Vince,” she whispered. “Before they get away.”
A knock sounded at her front door.
She jumped, even though she’d been waiting for it. Whiskers shrieked and bolted under the sofa.
“That’s all I need,” she muttered, rushing to answer it. “A cat as jumpy as me.”
She paused the alarm, unlocked the dead bolt, and threw it wide, ready to launch herself into his arms.
But she jerked to a stop. A short, stocky man stood on her porch. Forty, maybe. Thick through the middle, a button straining on his shirt. Slick dark hair around a fleshy face with watchful eyes.
“Miss Stevens,” he said calmly, in a heavy foreign accent. Distinctively Russian.
Terror knifed through her. She shoved the door closed.
He caught it, forcing her to retreat. Then he entered and shut it behind him with an ominous click.
“Tsk, tsk. You open door without asking who it is?”
