Shiver

room again for a while.
    How long until it would be safe to come back? She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything, except that she needed to run.
    “I’m home,” she called as, hearing nothing from Mrs. Menifee, she plunged into the shadowy hall, heading for the kitchen.
    Do not forget Ted. Sam was just reminding herself about the small brown Beanie Baby teddy bear that Tyler absolutely loved and couldn’t go to sleep without when something—a sound, a shadow, a feeling—slowed her steps just about the time she found herself opposite the bathroom door.
    Whatever it was, she couldn’t put her finger on it. It felt like—a kind of heaviness in the air. A hush. A sense of expectancy. Sam registered all those things at the same moment as itoccurred to her to wonder why Mrs. Menifee wasn’t answering, or bustling through the kitchen door to meet her, or something of the sort. The duplex was small. Mrs. Menifee had to have heard her . . .
    Something’s wrong.
    Her body knew it before she did. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled to life. Her stomach tensed. A shiver slid over her skin. Nearly opposite Tyler’s bedroom door by then, she could see almost a third of the kitchen. The familiar white cabinets, white counters, lemon-yellow walls . . .
    A deep red rivulet snaked slowly across the kitchen’s white linoleum floor. Sam frowned at it for a second before what she was seeing registered.
    Blood!
    Sam stopped dead, her breathing suspended, her gaze riveted on the creeping thread of scarlet.
    Tyler.
    Oh, God, had something happened to her baby? Had the men Marco warned her about already found their way here? That was the fear that catapulted her forward into a run, that made her snatch her gun from her waistband, that wrung a strangulated sound from her throat. A split second later, Sam saw to her horror that the rivulet led to a widening scarlet pool that led to a plump arm trailing limply from one of her kitchen chairs. Alongside the chair’s slender aluminum leg hung a motionless hand with long, deep pink fingernails awash in blood, a limp palm streaked in scarlet—wait, there were only four fingernails. She could only see four fingernails. The truth burstupon her in an explosion of horror: the tip of the index finger had been severed at the knuckle. The mutilated joint was running red. Her heart gave a great leap in her chest. Her pulse shot through the roof. Her stomach clenched. Mrs. Menifee  . . .
    She didn’t need to see more than that small sliver of the gruesome scene to know that something terrifying awaited her just steps away.
    A cold hand grabbed hers even as she started backpedaling only a foot or so before she reached the white linoleum, scaring her so badly that she jumped and squeaked and almost fell. Her shoulder crashed into the wall as she whirled to confront whoever it was.
    “Mom!” Tyler tugged frantically at her hand. His voice was a terrified whisper. His face utterly white, his eyes big as quarters, he had an expression on his face that struck fear into her heart. He looked like he had just seen every horrible monster that haunted his bad dreams come to life. “Don’t go in there! There are bad men! Quick! We have to hide!”
    “Tyler!” Because he was alive and apparently unharmed, his name emerged in a rush of thanksgiving. It was all Sam got a chance to say before a man stepped into her peripheral vision, blocking her view of Mrs. Menifee, planting himself just inside the kitchen doorway. For the briefest of moments she got the impression that he was looking beyond her, down the hallway toward the front door. He balanced on the balls of his feet in a way that told her he was prepared to move fast if he needed to. Medium height, medium build. Medium brown hair, cut like a businessman, short and neat. A pale, round face with ordinaryfeatures. Maybe forty, forty-five. Nondescript clothes. Nondescript man.
    Except for the gun in his hand, which he used to make a beckoning gesture toward her. Dear God, no. Sam’s breathing suspended. Her stomach plummeted down past her toes.
    A satisfied smirk curled his lips. “Samantha Jones? Where’s Marco?”
    Sam’s heart convulsed. If she ran he’d shoot her. If she stayed—he’d have Tyler, too.
    “Run, Tyler!” Sam shrieked, shoving her son back behind her, knowing that she had no chance of surviving this but going for it anyway, because if she could slow down what was getting ready to happen long enough