“Drop the gun, Richard,” he said.

The voice was calm, steady, and filled with a quiet, lethal promise.

It was the driver, Marcus.

And he was not alone.

Behind him, the red and blue lights of the police cars began to flash against the snow, their sirens wailing in the winter night.

Vance looked at the door, then at me, and finally at the gun in his hand.

“This isn’t over, Ethan,” Vance shouted toward the shadows.

He let go of my arm and backed away toward the rear exit, his boots slipping on the wet glass.

Marcus didn’t shoot. He just watched him go, his rifle still raised.

I ran toward the center of the room, my boots crunching on the glass.

“Lauren!” I cried.

She was still in the chair, her small doll clutched to her chest, her face covered in tears.

Ethan was kneeling beside her, his arms wrapped around her as he held her tight.

He looked up at me, his face pale and marked with blood, but his eyes were clear.

“We have to go, Evelyn,” he said, his voice shaking.