She was holding her injured arm close to her chest.

“Mom?” she whispered, her eyes wide with fear. “Is that Gareth?”

“Go back upstairs, Clara,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“He’s crazy,” she said, her voice shaking. “He won’t stop.”

“He’s stopping tonight,” I said. “Go back to your room and lock the door.”

She didn’t move, her gaze locked on the window where Gareth stood.

Outside, Gareth swung the crowbar against the glass.

A loud, metallic crack echoed through the kitchen.

The outer pane shattered into a spiderweb of thousands of tiny fractures, but the inner laminate held firm.

The glass stayed in place.

Gareth stumbled back, staring at the cracked surface in disbelief.

“Damn it!” he yelled, striking it again.

The second impact did nothing but create more white lines in the glass.

“You’re wasting your time,” I said through the speaker. “The glass is reinforced. You won’t get through before they arrive.”

In the distance, the faint, rising wail of a siren cut through the quiet suburban night.

Gareth stopped, his arm raised for another strike.

He turned his head toward the sound.