They owned a gun. A Glock 17 or 19 or something. She’d taken four classes and gone shooting at the range three times. It was a badass, secret agent–level gun. That’s what Ben had said. They’d probably never need it, but better to have it and not need it than need it and not …
The Glock was upstairs. In their bedroom. In the nightstand. She could take six long steps back and be at the main staircase.
Or take three steps forward and get a view into the kitchen.
She took two steps forward.
Ben’s briefcase and travel bag sat in the hallway. It was a beat-up, gym bag sort of thing he’d had for years. He still used it because it held three or four days’ worth of clothes, but it fit in an overhead compartment. Cut half an hour off his travel time to not be waiting on luggage.
“Babe, I swear to God, I’m calling the fucking cops in two minutes.” Her voice echoed in the house. “This isn’t funny.”
A long groan sounded above her. The noise of stressed wood. The spot by her studio, close to the door. Neither of them had stepped on it in over a year because it was so damned loud.
Whoever was upstairs had stepped on it.
They were upstairs!
She looked up at the ceiling. Three seconds passed, and another board squeaked. She could almost see the footsteps through the plaster. Someone was circling around the house. Straight through to the kitchen, up the back staircase she’d had her foot on just five minutes ago, and into the upstairs hallway. They were near the bedroom.
Near the gun.
Jesus, why hadn’t she grabbed the gun as soon as things got weird?
But why was Ben’s luggage in the house? Why was his car in the driveway? Had someone grabbed him at the airport? Did he get carjacked?
There was a panic number she was supposed to call. In case something happened to him, if someone tried to get to him through her. He’d given it to her, and she’d never even put it in her phone.
It was in the desk in her studio. Of course.
Becky stepped into the kitchen and grabbed her cell phone from the counter. Then she grabbed a knife from the big block. A wedding present from one of Ben’s old college friends. It was a great set. The blade of the butcher knife was almost fourteen inches long and sharp as hell. And the handle sat well in her hand.
They’d all laughed at the idea that knives were a bad-luck wedding gift.
She slid her fingers over the phone’s screen and tapped in 911. She held off pressing CALL. There was still a chance this was a bad joke. Some stupid plan to get a scream or a laugh or excitement sex or something, but he sure as hell wasn’t getting any off this.
And it wasn’t his sort of thing.
She circled through the living room. It had a thick carpet, almost silent to walk across. Just make it through the house, give Ben one last time to admit he was an idiot, and then out the door. She’d call 911 from the front yard.
She was halfway across the living room when she heard the sound of metal sliding across metal. It was a fast, back-and-forth with a hard snap at the end. She’d heard it a lot at the range. She’d been the one making it.
She swallowed.
Becky looked down at her phone. Could she raise her voice enough to talk? Did the person upstairs know where she was in the house? What did 911 do when they got a silent call? Did they trace it and send a car? Did they hang up?
She had to get out of the house now.
The front door was closer, but it was a clear shot—bad choice of words—a clear line of sight for anyone in the upstairs hall. Almost straight from their bedroom door to the front door.
The back door was farther away, but there was more weaving and someone would have to get much closer to aim—to see her. She’d have a chance to make the call. But the backyard was a wall of fences around a pool they hadn’t filled for the summer yet. She’d have to run back around to the side gate. And no one would be able to see her. Maybe not even hear her, with all the noise from that new house they were putting up one block over.
Plenty of time and opportunity for someone to grab her and drag her back into the house. It had to be the front door.
Becky gripped the knife, made sure her finger was still near the CALL button, and took three long strides across the living room. The carpet absorbed her footsteps, but she heard the fabric of her jeans and felt the air move around her.
Her foot hit the hall and she heard the creak of the second step from the top of the staircase. She froze. They were on the stairs. They’d see her going for the front door.
She should’ve gone out the back. She still could. But she’d have to be fast. They’d hear her for sure.
She ran for the door. Feet thumped on the stairs behind her. She reached for the knob.
“Stop!”
She turned and raised her knife. “You fuckhead,” she gasped.
Ben stood on the staircase, four steps from the bottom. One foot was still on the fifth. He was wearing the charcoal suit with the cranberry shirt that looked so good on him. The Glock was in his hand, its barrel pointed in her direction. He clutched his own phone in his other hand.
“Put the knife down.”
Becky’s shoulders slumped and she tossed the knife on the table. It slid to a stop right where his keys usually landed. “You scared the piss out of me, you jerk. I thought someone was in the house.”
He lowered himself to the next step. The pistol rose up. She could
