“You think you’re smart, Clara?” he spat, stepping over the broken plates.

The crunch of ceramic under his heavy leather boots sounded like small bones snapping.

I held the skillet in front of me with both hands, my knuckles white.

My breath came in short, ragged gasps.

“Stay back,” I said.

He took another step, his eyes locked on the iron pan.

“Harris and I have been watching you for months,” he said, his voice dropping to a low hiss.

“You thought you disappeared into this quiet little suburban life.”

“You thought your little cooking blog made you anonymous.”

He wiped the blood from his cheek with his sleeve, smearing it across his pale skin.

“We knew every time you logged on,” he said.

“We had a tap on your router before you even unpacked your first box of spices.”

The front door gave way with a loud, echoing crash that vibrated through the floorboards.

“Police! Nobody move!” voices screamed from the front foyer.

Julian didn’t look back this time.

He lunged straight at me, ignoring the skillet.

I swung again, but he was too fast.