“Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. I’m in the cruiser with them.” Her voice hardened. “Claire, you have to hold them off. Do not let them inside. Whatever they say, whatever they do, keep that door locked.”

On camera three, twin headlight beams cut through the rain and swept across the pines at the edge of my property. A heavy SUV took the turn into my gravel drive too fast, tires spitting mud.

“Marisol,” I whispered, watching three figures climb out into the downpour. “They’re here.”

I left the phone on the counter and crept into the front foyer, putting my back against the cold wall beside the heavy oak door. The wind covered their footsteps on the gravel, but I felt the boots hit the porch through the floorboards.

“Claire!”

It was my father. Arthur Bennett. Not the warm paternal tone he used when relatives were watching — the sharp bark he saved for closed doors and drawn curtains.