Her house was dark and quiet. She flipped on a switch to the kitchen, and the room lit up with eye-hurting brightness.

She stood motionless except for her eyes, which darted to every darkened corner, every shadowed area. The dishes she'd left this morning were still in the sink; the jacket she'd tossed over the back of a chair, as she'd left it. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.

Yet . . .

Her heart thudded. She could count her heartbeats, hard and fast. Her mind was darting as well. Searching out the row of knives attached by their blades to the magnetic holder nailed to the side of the cabinet, the iron pan in the drawer beneath the oven, the various and sundry items that could wound or maim, like the meat thermometer with its tiny, sharp point.

She stood silently for an eternity of less than a minute before she willed herself to get past this frozen paranoia. He wasn't here. She was alone. It was only her own fear working on her.

Forcing herself, she placed her purse on the table and sank into one of her cafe chairs, her back to the door at the far end of the kitchen, which opened into the pantry. She thought about that room behind her. Her mind suddenly couldn't focus on anything else. After a half beat, she jumped up and yanked open the door, a scream rising in her throat.

But it was empty. Nothing there but cans of food, her mop and broom, a vacuum cleaner, the hose of which was duct taped against a leak, some odds and ends of paper products and cleaning supplies.

She never uttered the scream. Instead, feeling like she'd run a marathon, she returned to the table, resuming her seat. "Moron," she muttered under her breath and still hoped Harrison would arrive soon. Staring at her purse, she pulled it off the table and sat it on the floor beside her, sliding her fingers into its side pocket, extracting her cell phone. She wanted to call Harrison again. Maybe leave a message this time. Let him know she was home and safe.

Except she had a bad case of the willies.

Something just felt off.

Hurry back, Harrison, she thought, sending the message out as if she could contact him mentally, as she did Justice.

Hurry. . . .

CHAPTER 27.

Geena was growing more kittenish by the minute and had engaged Alonzo, the bartender, in their conversation. Harrison just needed to put in a little more time before he could ease away. If he was lucky, Geena would scarcely notice in her pursuit of the definitely interested bartender or the guy in the back corner, wearing a cap.

Alonzo, though, was ahead in the "get Geena race." He was one of those guys who threw a bar towel over his shoulder and made the move look like a come-on. Geena wasn't immune and turned a cold shoulder to Harrison after she'd decreed him interested in someone else.

Harrison could probably leave now, he reasoned, but a few more minutes wouldn't hurt. He didn't want to lose Geena as a source or a friend; timing was everything.

Alonzo had just learned Geena worked for the Tillamook County Sheriff's Department, however, and it was almost a deal breaker.

"Goddamn sheriff's D arrested me once," he revealed, his amiable expression fleeing as if it had been ordered to leave. "Thought I was in a gang." He shook his head. "Fuckers. That Clausen . . ."

Harrison's ears perked up. "Guy doesn't like me much, either."

"Clausen?" Alonzo shot him a look. "Why? What'd you do?"

"Made the department look bad." Harrison shrugged. "Luckily, Geena doesn't hold it against me."

"Fred Clausen is a one-note act," Geena said, waving a hand in that "let me tell you, even though I'm drunk" kind of way. "He likes who he likes, and he doggedly goes after stuff, I'll give 'im that. But he doesn't really look at every side, y'know?"

"I know," Harrison agreed.

"But to say you were in a gang . . . ?" Geena slowly shook her head from side to side, struggling a bit as she focused on Alonzo.

"I knew guys from the Seaside area," the bartender allowed. "Weren't exactly a gang, but they were trouble. It wasn't even Clausen's case, though. Way outside of Tillamook County, but he knew I knew 'em, and they were involved in some kind of brawl. I ended up getting thrown in the department's jail. Took a while to sort it out."

"I hope you're not gonna hold that against me," Geena said. "I just work there."

"I won't hold it against you."

There was a long look between them, and Harrison, seeing his opening, slid off his bar stool and stretched, just to make it look good. "I think I'd better get going."

"The hell with that," Geena told him.

"You and Alonzo can sort out the world's problems without me." He leaned in to give her a friendly pat on the shoulder, but she grabbed him and pulled him close.

"One more drink," she said.

He laughed. "Gotta go."

"I might need a designator driver . . . designated driver."

"You might," he agreed, but he was still determined to split.

"One more," she said. "Then I'm done. I promise."

Harrison glanced at Alonzo, who said, "I can't help you. I'm here till one thirty. I'm off tomorrow, though." He gazed meaningfully at Geena.

But Geena had switched from Alonzo back to Harrison. "Please?"

"Make it a quick one, Geena." With an inward sigh, he perched back on his bar stool.

Laura realized she was being an idiot.

There was no reason to stay in the kitchen, as if she were afraid to go through the rest of the house. It wasn't even that big a place. Two bedrooms and a bath on the main level with the kitchen and living room.

No big deal.

But her skin prickled despite her big talk to herself.

There was a basement to the place, and just thinking of that dark, unfinished area sent a shiver scampering up her spine. Fortunately, the only access to the basement was by an outside stairwell. No way to get in here from the basement unless you went outside first.

She was nuts to be so worried. Why now?

Nervously, she glanced at her cell phone and wished Harrison would call her back. Fingering the keypad, she almost dialed him a second time. Thought better of it.

The old clock mounted over the arch to the living room counted off the seconds.

Maybe she should leave. Just go out for a while. She wasn't due at work until tomorrow afternoon, so there was no reason to stay here. Despite her earlier bravado, the night was getting to her and she felt as if unseen eyes could watch her through the windows.

Telling herself to just get on with her life and quit being a scared little ninny, she forced herself to walk toward the living room. She hit the lights in the short hallway and flooded the room with illumination. Leaving them on, she walked to the bathroom, then peeked into each bedroom, her pulse accelerating each time.

She thought she heard the softest of sounds. . . . Someone breathing? A stifled sigh? The hairs at the back of her neck lifted. Oh, dear God.

She stared at the closet in her bedroom. Closed tight. The doors latched. She should just open them and . . .

Again she heard an almost inaudible sound. . . . A hiss?

Her heart slammed inside her chest, and she backed up, one hand on the wall, fingers sliding along the textured surface. The creaky floorboard in the hall groaned against her weight, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

This is ridiculous! But she couldn't convince herself to let out her breath.

She needed a weapon.

If only for her own peace of mind.

She stepped back to the kitchen and reached for a knife from the rack but stopped, her hand poised over the hilts.

One knife was missing.

An empty slot in the magnetic holder.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

The blood in her veins froze.

She whipped around, breath coming fast. Ears straining. Muscles poised.

He was here!

Where?

She nearly screamed.

Clamped her jaw shut.

Her phone was still in her hand; she'd taken it with her like a security blanket. Now she gave it a glance. Nine-one-one. She should call 911!

Except. . .

Was a knife missing?

Had there been a space on the end of the rack already . . . maybe . . . ?

Her heartbeat out of control, she glanced at the sink, where the dishes were piled. No butcher knife visible. She felt faint. Close to collapse.

What was wrong with her? Was it really all in her head?

The door to the basement was by the back steps, set into a bump-out from the house and facing the steps and driveway at a right angle. She walked to the kitchen back door. Its window was a black square into the night. She peered out cautiously. She could just make out the basement door, about ten feet away. It was closed. Locked. Accessible only by a steep concrete staircase that led to an equally concrete area with posts supporting the back of the house above and very little headroom.

She was safe inside.

Still . . .

In her mind's eye, she saw him, the hatred twisting his handsome features, the carnage of dead bodies, mutilated . . . the joy he found in the slaughter. Oh, dear God, she'd unleashed the monster. No, Laura, you didn't unleash him. He escaped . . . remember?

Oh, she remembered. And she recalled distinctly how she'd taunted him, challenged him.

Just like when they were children.

She pulled a utility knife with a five-inch blade off the rack, then stood silently, counting her racing heartbeats.

You're doing this to yourself! Pull yourself together, Laura. Don't freak. Do not freak!

She drew in a long, calming breath, her heart slowing a bit, her skin relaxing over her muscles. After a few moments in the blazingly bright kitchen, her ears registering the silence of the house, she thought very clearly, very condemningly: Now what? Television? A book? No way.

Slowly, she sat down once more at the table, the cafe chair squeaking protestingly beneath her weight. She set her cell phone onto the tabletop and looked at the knife in her right hand.

"Get a grip!" she said in a harsh whisper.

She thought about putting the knife back. Almost did. But didn't.

Couldn't.

A moment passed.

The clock ticked loudly, and in an instant, she felt him. Heard him. Warning bells clanged through her mind, and her gaze jerked to the back window.

Justice Turnbull was standing right outside.

Staring at her through the glass with his damning pale eyes.

The butcher knife clenched in his right hand.

Harrison gazed down at the illuminated screen of his phone. Laura had tried to call him. Didn't look like she'd left a message, but he checked his voice mail, anyway, thinking about the time. She'd phoned about thirty minutes earlier, probably when she was getting off work or maybe even walking through her bungalow's door.

Geena had slowed down on the alcohol, but she was feeling no pain. "Okay, who is she?" she asked with a theatrical sigh. "Come on. You're seeing one some . . . someone . . . or something. . . ." She laughed and shook her head. "Whew. I'm close to really, really wasted. You could get lucky, if you tried."

Harrison wondered if he should call Laura back. Was it urgent? Was she in trouble? More than likely she was just checking in. They'd gotten to that place in their "relationship" already. But she'd contacted Justice, mentally, if that was even possible, and he kinda half thought, believed, it was . . . maybe . . . whatever, the guy was a psycho and he could be tracking her, 'cause that was what he did.

Alonzo, the bartender, was hanging back, assessing whether to throw his hat in the ring with Geena or if she was just playing a game and using him as a pawn. Harrison read the guy's mind; he'd been there before. Maybe that was what Laura's thing was with Justice, a kind of understanding rather than actual mind reading, or in her case, mind talking. Maybe it was a whole load of bullshit, but it hardly mattered because Justice was a dangerous threat, and that was what counted.

"I gotta call somebody back," he said.

"It's her, isn't it?" Geena looked over at Alonzo and nodded. "Told ya," she said to the room at large.

Ignoring her, Harrison held the cell phone tight to his ear.

The phone buzzed on the table at the same moment Laura opened her mouth to shriek. The ring caught her attention, and she glanced away for a split second. One nanomoment.