He closed his eyes and waited for themto leave.
The door to the outside world opened,and he heard them step through. There was a long moment when he could hear hershuffling on the step, waving them off, even calling out a muted “Bye!” pitchedlow so as not to disturb the neighbors. Then she stepped back and swung thedoor shut, the thud of the lock connecting with the frame like music to hisears.
She was alone now.
It was just the two of them, and shedidn’t even know it.
He held his breath still as she walkedpast his hiding place, down the hall and back into the front room. He heard hershuffling things around, no doubt tidying up, the clink of empty glasses andplates being stacked together. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake as lasttime. He waited, waited, waited. He counted the time in his head, ticking offseconds. Five minutes.
Ten minutes. She finished the tidyingbut stayed in the room. Doing what? He heard a slightly exaggerated exhalationof breath and a clink, putting the noises together into a visual image: a sipfrom her wine glass before placing it back down on the coffee table. She wasfinishing it off.
Time was slipping away from him. It wasalways going to be a compromise between staying safe and using his position tomount the attack before she was gone, up the stairs to bed. The risks increasedup there. She might wake after hearing him on the stairs. She might roll out ofthe way and scream the house down, and he would be caught after all.
No, his old way was the best: wait untilyou can get behind them, slip out, pull the knife across the throat before theyhave time to react. No scream, no fight, no trying to run.
He moved slowly and carefully, takinghis time. It was all going to go to waste if she heard him before he was ready.He retraced his steps, back to his original position, beside the emptydoorframe, ready. And he waited.
She finished the wine with one more clinkand a happy sigh, and then he heard her moving again. Subtle movements, butonce you knew what you were listening for, it was easy to put it together. Shegot up off the couch. She moved toward the door.
This was his chance. She just had tostep past him, toward the stairs, and he could spring out…
She passed by, and he made his move,stepping out into the corridor. There she was, right in front of him. Intouching distance. She didn’t hear him step. He lifted the knife, reached outhis hand. One more step forward and then she would be—
There was a knock at the door, rapid andragged, a closed fist banging as hard as it could.
It was like it happened in slow motion.She turned, so slowly he felt like he could reach out and stop her, although hecouldn’t because he was moving slowly too. He was reaching, but it wasn’thappening. He was commanding his hands to take hold of her, but she was spinningaround and somehow out of his grip, and her eyes were lighting up with surpriseand realization.
And she screamed, the sound like ashattering hammer on the spell he had been under, sending time back into normalmotion again as he lunged for her and she stumbled back.
***
Zoe hammered on the door, her closedfist against the dull wood, opening her mouth ready to shout. People usuallyresponded faster when they knew it was the FBI at their door, not some randompizza delivery with the wrong house number written on the form.
But she never got a chance to say thewords, because as soon as she hammered on the door, there was a scream frominside the house.
Zoe looked over at Shelley, her headsnapping around, head kicking into overdrive. “Open it,” she said, thinkingthat Shelley would break out the case she had brought with her last time andinsert the metal picks into the lock until it clicked open.
But Shelley motioned her out of the way,stepped back, and then aimed a well-placed kick at the wood of the door,sending splinters flying through the air as the metal fixings around the lockgave way under pressure.
Through a shower of wood scraps and in atorrent of confusion, Shelley and Zoe both stepped forward. The impact of thekick had slowed Shelley down, and Zoe was the first one in the corridor, takingin what had happened.
There was a momentary thrill: the factthat she had been right. But that soon died out in the face of what she hadbeen confronted with.
“Don’t move,” he said, and Zoe instantlyfroze, obeying what he asked.
And how could she not? Because he wasthere, their killer, and he had his trademark knife in his hand. Not only that,but the knife was pressed against the throat of a young woman whom Zoerecognized as the owner of the house: Chrissie Rosenhart.
“Don’t come any closer,” the killersaid.
“I am not,” Zoe told him immediately.She held her hands out to her sides, showing that there was nothing in them.Her gun remained on her hip. “Do not do anything stupid. We can all stay calmand talk for a second.”
Chrissie wasn’t staying calm. Her facewas pale, and fat, round tears were falling down her checks, leaving shinysnail-tracks behind them. She was sobbing, drawing in shaken breaths thatjuddered out of her audibly.
“It’s not stupid,” the killer said. Hewas six feet tall, with dark, close-cropped hair across the top of his head.Just the way their witness had described. There could be no doubt that it washim, even beyond the knife he was holding in his hand.
Zoe’s eyes locked on that knife for asecond. That knife—it could be the key to the whole case. Even if it had beenwashed, there was a chance that DNA still lingered. The DNA of John Dowling,Callie Everard, and Naomi Karling. Just one more reason not to have it coveredwith Chrissie Rosenhart’s before Zoe and Shelley could get it into an evidencebag.
“What isn’t stupid?” Shelley piped up,from behind Zoe. Zoe felt relief wash over
