“You didn’t wash her hair,” he noted quietly, looking at her dry scalp. “The shower’s running, but her hair is dry. Why is that, Claire?”

“She was scared of the water pressure,” I lied, steady despite the adrenaline. “I was running it to steam up the room, keep her warm while I gave her a sponge bath at the sink.

You told me she hated the water. You were right.”

Daniel stared at me for a long, suffocating moment. Then he lowered the screwdriver.

“Get her into bed,” he ordered, turning on his heel. “And don’t lock doors in my house again.”

Chapter 3 — The Basement

By midnight the house was tomb-quiet. I lay on top of the covers in my childhood bedroom, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. For the past nine years I’d worked as a prosecutor for the State’s Financial Exploitation Unit.