She scrambled backward, her boot catching on a loose brick.

She fell against the damp tiled wall, but she did not drop the weapon in her hand.

It was a small, silver revolver.

She held it with both hands, her knuckles white and bleeding from small, dry cracks in her skin.

The barrel pointed directly at my chest.

Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow jerks.

“Stay back,” she whispered.

Her voice was thin, but it carried a sharp, desperate edge.

I did not move.

I did not reach for my gun.

I just looked at her face in the yellow light of the battery-powered lantern on the floor.

Her eyes were wide with terror.

But they were the same deep, dark brown eyes that had looked back at me from family photographs since I was a boy.

“Isabella,” I said.

My voice sounded rough, scraping against my throat.

She flinched when I spoke her name.

“No,” she said, her voice shaking. “No, you’re not here. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’ve been looking for you for five years,” I said. “I thought you were dead, Bella.”