THWACK. CRUNCH.

The iron tip punched through the wood, missing my face by inches. I scrambled back, pulling my mother into the corner, shielding her with my body.

“He’s going to kill us,” she sobbed into my shoulder.

“No, he’s not,” I lied.

With a final crash, the hinges tore from the frame. The door fell inward against the dresser. Daniel vaulted the barricade, his chest heaving, his eyes wild and bloodshot.

He held the bent poker in one hand and a length of nylon rope in the other.