“The storm must have knocked out the power lines,” Ethan said.

“No,” Julian said, looking out the window into the dark trees.

“The cabin next door still has its lights on.”

I heard the sound of wet gravel crunching outside.

Headlights swept across the living room wall, casting long, frantic shadows.

A car door slammed.

Then another.

“She’s here,” Ethan whispered, his voice cracking with terror.

I stood in front of the crib, shielding my son with my body.

The front door knob began to rattle violently.

A heavy hand knocked against the wood, shaking the frame.

“Olivia!” a voice boomed from the porch.

“Open this door right now!”

It wasn’t Margaret.

It was a man’s voice, deep and commanding.

The lock clicked from the outside.

Someone had a key.

The door began to creak open.

The door swung open.

Arthur, Margaret’s private security chief, stood in the threshold.

The cold mountain air rushed into the room, smelling of damp pine and wet earth.

He held a heavy flashlight, its bright beam cutting through the darkness and blinding me.

Behind him, Margaret Lawson stepped onto the porch.