“The gas concentration is already high in the kitchen. If you open the door, the draft might push it around.”

“I just want to make sure she’s still in there,” Harris insisted.

I saw the brass doorknob begin to turn.

The deadbolt was unlocked—I had turned the key myself just minutes ago.

If he pulled the door, it would swing open immediately, revealing that the lock was compromised.

And he would see me standing right there in the dark.

I looked around the small pantry, my eyes searching for anything to use as a weapon.

My hand brushed against a heavy glass jar of preserved lemons on the middle shelf.

I wrapped my fingers around the lid, ready to swing.

The doorknob turned all the way.

“Wait,” Julian said, his voice sharp.

“Where is your gun, Harris?”

The doorknob stopped turning.

“It’s on the counter,” Harris said.

“No, it isn’t,” Julian replied.

“I’m looking at the cutting board. It’s not there.”

A heavy silence fell over the kitchen.

I held my breath, the jar of lemons heavy in my hand.