I smiled at him tentatively through the glass and flipped down the door to the security panel on the wall, tapping in the code (Tate was adamant about the alarm being set when he was away, even if he was away for an errand). I left the door down to the panel, unlocked the sliding glass door and slid it open for Dalton.

“Hey, Dalton, what are you…?”

For some reason, Tate’s long ago words sifted into my head.

“Profilers think he’s able to assimilate. He’s one of us.”

Tonia. Neeta. The girl in Chantelle.

“He either knew them or he doesn’t pose a threat. He comes off as friendly. He might even be attractive. A good flirt. Turn a woman’s eye. Thinks she’s gonna get her some, not havin’ any clue.”

“Laurie,” Dalton said, coming into the house, the look on his face funny, tortured, his eyes shining with a light I’d never seen in my life, an unnatural light, a light lit from a deep inner madness and I knew.

I jumped forward and to the side, my finger extended to hit the red panic button on the alarm panel.

I had no idea if I touched it before the jolt hit me and everything went black.

* * * * *

Tate

Tate Jackson’s cell rang and, driving home to Lauren with his son in the seat at his side, he leaned forward and pulled it from the back pocket of his jeans.

He flipped it open, put it to his ear and said, “Jackson.”

“Tate,” Frank replied, “you at your house?”

Those four words coming from a cop hit him like a sucker punch to the gut.

“No, on my way home with Jonas, why?”

“Weird,” Frank muttered.

“Why?” Tate bit out.

“Laurie with you?” Frank asked.

“No, Frank, damn it, why?”

“Somethin’s up with your alarm, buddy. Dispatch got the alert that your panic button’s been hit.”

Tate’s gut dropped and his foot pressed down on the accelerator.

“Get units to the house,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Get units to the house!” Tate barked.

“Fuck, Laurie there on her own?”

“Frank –” Tate growled and Frank interrupted him.

“On it,” he stated and disconnected.

Tate flipped his phone closed, then opened, then he went to favorites to find Laurie’s number, accelerating faster.

“Dad,” Jonas whispered, hearing his father’s words, feeling his father’s vibe.

“It’ll be okay, Bub,” Tate told his son.

“Is something –?”

Tate glanced at his son to see his face pale in the lights of the dash and his eyes glued to his father.

“Everything’ll be okay,” he assured Jonas but Tate’s chest was tight, so f**king tight he was finding it hard to breathe. He hit the button for Laurie, looked to the road, put the phone to his ear and repeated, “Everything’ll be okay.”

* * * * *

“Stand right there, Jonas, don’t move, yeah?” Tate ordered his son, Jonas nodded and Tate turned away and stood a moment, taking in every nuance of the house.

Lights on in the kitchen, the living room, on the Christmas tree, the Christmas lights lit outside. Candles burning, the scent of pine. Christmas music playing. Laurie had loads of Christmas CDs, some compilations she’d burned. Now it was Bing Crosby and David Bowie, Peace on Earth. One of Laurie’s favorites, he’d noted she always teared up when that song played. She loved it. When he’d asked, she said it reminded her of home. It was her sister and mother’s favorite Christmas song too.

The kitchen was empty. Laurie was almost always in the kitchen. Making herself a drink, getting one for him or Jonas. Cooking. Baking. Sitting at the island and scratching out a grocery list; tapping on her laptop e-mails to friends and family or checking her Facebook page; talking with her mother, sister, Betty, Sunny, Wendy, Amber, Twyla, Krys even though she spent hours with them working she could talk for hours with them on the phone, a cup of peppermint tea in front of her, cackling like a lunatic (even with Krys). It was her zone and not only because she used it to take care of her family but it was the center of the house. She used it as her vantage point to keep her finger on her boys. No matter where they were, from the kitchen, she could hear them or see them. That was why he spent a f**king fortune fixing it up for her. If she was going to spend that amount of time in it, she was going to have the best f**king kitchen money could buy. So he’d made that so.

But she wasn’t there now and her cell phone sat on the island. She never went anywhere without her cell.

He moved through the house. The rest of it was dark and he didn’t light any lights, just looked for her even though he knew she wasn’t there. She’d call a greeting if she heard them come in, no matter where she was in the house. She always did.

He knew she wasn’t in any of those rooms because she also always turned the lights out when she left a room. Said it was because she was an environmentalist but admitted later it was because her Dad had a rule when she was growing up, lights out if you weren’t in a room. They were farmers, not rolling in it. They needed to keep the electricity bill down and, even though she’d moved onto a life where that wasn’t a worry, she’d kept doing it. Habit.

He stood in their darkened bedroom. The blinds down but opened. The Christmas lights outside illuminating the room and the picture she’d bought him hanging over the bed. The walls painted in paint she’d chosen. The bed made, the floor tidy and recently vacuumed. New framed photos on his chest of drawers. One of him and her at her birthday party, she was drunk and plastered to his side, her arms around his middle, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, his arm around her waist. He was smiling down at her, she was smiling at the camera. Another one of him and Jonas captured after one of Jonas’s football games. It was a candid. Tate had his hand on Jonas’s shoulder pad, he was looking down at him, Jonas had his helmet dangling by the faceguard from his fingertips, he was looking up at his Dad. They were both smiling. And another frame, on Tate’s nightstand, the three of them at Thanksgiving, Pop took it, Laurie in his lap, Jonas tucked to his side, Tate smiling at the camera but Jonas and Laurie were looking at each other, their faces awash with laughter.

He could smell her perfume.

She was everywhere, her presence filled every damned centimeter of the room.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

He walked back down the hall, tipping his chin up to Jonas when he saw his son’s face wore so much concern, it had already turned haggard. Tipping his chin was the only thing he could do to communicate to his son as the fear clawed at his gut. He walked down the back hall to the mudroom, down the stairs. He saw his weight equipment and remembered, just the week before, working out when she was doing something in his office. He noticed she’d come out, leaned against the doorframe at the mouth of the hall and she’d been sipping coffee and watching him.