“I came here tonight because Rachel escaped two days ago,” he said.

“She made it to a shelter in Ohio. They called me after she gave my name. I knew the police would start asking questions. I knew he’d panic.”

“He?” I asked.

He nodded toward the door.

“Daniel Harper kept records. He filmed things. Collected insurance payouts, blackmail, money. He did the dirty work, but he never trusted me. If Rachel resurfaced, he’d come for both of us.”

As if summoned, a gunshot blasted through the front window.

Glass exploded inward.

My mother screamed.

Rachel dropped to the floor.

I pulled Noah down just as another shot tore into the wall above us.

“Back hallway!” my father shouted.

We ran.

The house alarm shrieked, red lights flashing.

My father shoved open the mudroom door toward the garage—then froze.

Daniel Harper was already inside.

Older, heavier, one side of his face scarred by an old burn, but unmistakable.

He held a gun in one hand and a ring of keys in the other, smiling like he’d arrived for a private joke.

“Tom,” he said. “You always did wait too long.”