Evan jumped, spinning around to face the dark crevice.

“Who is in there?” he screamed.

He took three fast, stumbling steps toward the wardrobe, his back completely turned to the high-backed armchair.

Lorenzo rose from the deep shadows of the corner.

He did not make a sound as he moved across the Persian rug.

His large, scarred hands reached out like claws in the dim red light of the nursery monitor.

Before Evan could turn back, Lorenzo’s forearm locked around his throat.

Evan let out a wet gasp, his elbows flaring as he tried to strike backward.

Lorenzo did not flinch.

He slammed Evan’s back against the heavy mahogany wardrobe.

The wood groaned, and a silver picture frame rattled on the top shelf before falling to the floor.

The glass shattered, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the closed room.

“Drop it,” Lorenzo growled into Evan’s ear.

Evan thrashed, his legs kicking out, his shoes scuffing the white wainscoting.

He tried to bring the scalpel down into Lorenzo’s forearm.

I lunged forward, grabbing Evan’s wrist with both of my hands.