My late sister's son was our ring bearer—at the altar, he refused to hand over the rings, pointed at my fiancé and said, "Mom told me not to give them to him until you see this."

"Clara! Listen to me!" Miller shouted through the phone. "Get Bruce, barricade yourselves in a back room, and get your hands on a weapon! Units are twenty minutes out from the county line!"

I dropped the phone to the floor, killed the kitchen lights, and moved with silent, desperate speed into the guest room.

Bruce was still asleep. I clamped my hand gently over his mouth and shook his shoulder. His eyes flew open in alarm.

"Shh," I breathed directly into his ear. "Don't make a sound. Bruce, do you remember the game hide-and-seek we played when the storm came?"

He nodded, terror widening his pupils.

"Under the crawlspace hatch in the closet. Now. Go."

I lifted the false floorboard beneath Judy’s winter coats inside the bedroom closet. Bruce slipped inside without a whimper, curling into a ball among the insulation. I replaced the board, threw a pile of duffel bags over it, and pulled the closet door shut until it clicked.

In the kitchen, the soft scrape of metal touched the back lock.

Judy kept a 20-gauge shotgun in the utility closet for coyotes, but I had never fired it in my life. I grabbed the heavy cast-iron skillet from the stove with both hands and backed into the shadowy alcove behind the hallway pillar.

The back door did not burst open. It swung inward on oiled hinges with sickening silence.

A figure stepped into the gray morning light filtering through the kitchen window. He wore a dark canvas jacket and heavy work boots. In his right hand, he held a heavy tire iron.

He didn't look like Douglas Mercer anymore. The polished, gentle gentleman was stripped away. His shoulders were hunched, his jaw set in a savage, feral grimace.

"Clara," he called out softly, his voice sickeningly conversational. "I know you’re here. Your little civic is parked behind the woodpile. Let's talk about this like adults."

I held my breath, pressing my spine so hard against the drywall that the plaster dug into my shoulder blades.

"You really should have just taken the vows, Clara," he said, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the hallway. "You would have lived comfortably for another six months. Maybe even a year. I’m not a monster. I don't enjoy the mess."

He paused right outside the hallway opening.