He was wearing his heavy waxed coat, the fabric glistening with rainwater from the storm.

His face was pale, his jaw set in that rigid, familiar line that always signaled danger.

Detective Harris followed close behind him.

Harris’s uniform was soaked, the dark fabric sticking to his shoulders.

“We don’t have all night, Julian,” Harris said, wiping rain from his forehead.

“The storm is getting worse, and the county roads are going to wash out soon.”

Julian didn’t answer right away.

He walked over to the kitchen island, his eyes scanning the room.

He stopped just a foot away from the counter where the service weapon lay.

My breath caught in my throat.

“Where is she?” Julian asked, his voice low and dead.

“She’s locked in the pantry,” Harris replied, gesturing toward my hiding spot.

“The deadbolt is engaged from the outside. She’s not going anywhere.”

Julian walked closer to the pantry door.

I pressed my back against the wire shelves, my hands gripping the cold metal until my knuckles turned white.

The smell of gas was leaking through the crack, thick and sweet and suffocating.