I looked at the clock on the wall.

Ten-fifteen.

The rain continued to hammer against the glass.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps in the hallway.

They were heavy, deliberate.

They stopped right outside my door.

The metal handle jiggled.

Then, a knock.

“Alana?”

It was my father’s voice.

I held my breath.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“Alana, I know you’re in there,” Mark said, his voice low and vibrating through the thin wood of the door.

The brass handle turned slowly, but the lock held.

I looked at the window.

It was an old sash window, painted shut several times over the years, but I had pried it open with a butter knife earlier that week.

I slipped my shoes off and crept across the cold hardwood floor.

Outside, the rain poured down in sheets, blurring the yellow light of the streetlamp on the corner.

I slid the window upward.

It gave a loud, wooden groan that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.

“Alana?” Mark’s voice turned sharp and demanding.

He threw his weight against the door.