It was Marcus.

The comment read: *The salt ratio is dangerous. I am coming to check your pantry immediately.*

My stomach twisted.

He had understood.

But he was sixty years old and drove a hybrid sedan.

He was no match for Julian.

And he did not know Julian was in the house.

Suddenly, a pair of headlights swept across the frosted glass of the kitchen window.

A car had turned into our long, gravel driveway.

It did not have the high-pitched hum of Marcus’s hybrid.

It was a heavy engine.

The tires crunched to a halt near the side porch.

“Who is that?” Julian demanded.

His voice lost its calm, mechanical tone.

I heard the scraping of his chair upstairs.

“I do not know,” I said.

The blue security monitor on the wall hummed to life.

A black-and-white camera feed showed a man walking through the rain toward the side door.

He wore a dark trench coat.

He walked with a slight, heavy limp.

It was Detective Harris from the township police.

He had been watching the house for a week, but not for my safety.