My husband came in first. I recognized Daniel Carter instantly—not by sight, but by the rhythm of his footsteps.
Quick. Controlled. The same confident stride he used whenever he believed he was in charge of a situation.
The woman with him wore heels. Thin heels. Each click against the hardwood floor echoed through the house like a countdown.
“They’re not here,” she said nervously. A suitcase hit the floor. “What do you mean they’re not here?”
Daniel snapped. Cabinets opened. Drawers slammed. I heard him moving through the kitchen, then the living room.
Then his footsteps changed direction. Straight toward the hallway. Toward us.
