Charlie took a breath, wrapping the robe she’d grabbed off the bathroom door around her bloodstained pajamas. She’d always been a hard sleeper, but she was fully awake now. And wishing she wasn’t.

Every nerve she possessed was jangling ten ways from Sunday. Her hands shook as she fumbled to tie the belt. The man she’d left in her spare room was probably insane, and running from the law on top of it.

Most likely a very bad man.

Except there had been something in his eyes that said otherwise, along with a warning that still had the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickling. She’d ignored that feeling once, but she’d never do so again.

Charlie knew damn well she had to open the door, and that most likely she was being ridiculously melodramatic—something she loathed—but better melodramatic than dead. A little caution never hurt anyone.

That was practically her life motto.

She peered through the peephole. Two perfectly normal-looking men lurked in the hallway. Not in uniform, but on TV, cops were in plainclothes all the time, right? One man was tall, with a hatchet face distorted by the fish-eye view. His partner was shorter by only a few inches and heavier, though both men appeared quite fit.

Well, they’re cops, they don’t all live on donuts, she scolded herself. She’d had little reason in her adult life to interact with the police. As a child, it had been different, but those memories were blessedly hazy.

The shorter man knocked again, making her jump. “Ma’am, we know you’re in there, the doorman told us—”

She cracked the door, keeping the chain on.

“What took you so long?” the taller man snapped.

She frowned at his tone. “I was in the other room, painting.” Wriggling her perpetually stained fingers in the gap, Charlie hoped like hell they wouldn’t notice the blood there as well.

“Well, we need to come in. Door-to-door search. There’s a dangerous man in the area.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ve been here all night and I haven’t heard a thing.”

“Procedure, ma’am.”

“But . . . I’m all alone here and you’re strangers.”

“We’re cops, lady.” The hatchet-faced one pushed in front of his partner and stuck his face as close to hers as he could get. The urge to recoil was strong, but she managed to give him a tremulous smile. Would real cops be this belligerent?

“If I could see some ID then? I probably should call the station, too, just to be safe—”

“Christ, piggy, just open the fucking door!”

The murderous rage in those words took her breath away. Oh god. Definitely not cops. These were the bad guys, not the man in her room. Or maybe they were all bad guys. Behind the door, Charlie’s hand started to shake. If they tried to force their way in, what could she do?

Nothing. There was nothing she could do. Just like before, spiders scratching at the door, wanting inside—

Hatchet Face was yanked back. Charlie blinked at the shorter man, who leaned forward to give her what tried and failed to be an apologetic smile. “Look, Miss, my partner is stressed out. Rough night, you feel me?”

She swallowed, trying not to let the terror clawing up her throat erupt in a scream . . . or worse, a sob.

“I do.” She met his cold eyes with an inane stare she’d perfected ages ago. It was a stare that said the lights were on, but nobody much was home. The patented look made people dismiss her every day. She’d never wanted to draw attention less than she did right now. “And I hate to be a bother, really, Officer. But I promise I haven’t heard a thing and my father would just kill me if I let two strange men into my home at this time of night without calling to check your IDs,” she babbled.

That was a lie. Charlie hadn’t seen her dad in ten years, give or take. And the idea of that sorry bastard giving a thought to her well-being was laughable. The short guy with the freaky dead eyes didn’t know that, though.

Hatchet Face made an impatient sound, somewhere between a cough and a snort. Charlie watched his skinny, big-knuckled hand reach into the pocket of his coat, her stomach going cold and watery. A door rattled loudly one floor down.

Hatchet Face’s hand froze.

The sound of slurred cursing drifted up along with a bang that might have been someone kicking a door. Shorty’s nostrils flared as he looked her up and down one last time. The abrupt dismissal in his eyes made her weak-kneed with relief. “We don’t have time for this shit. We’ve got other apartments to check.”

He whirled, moving fast, his elbow catching Hatchet Face in his skinny gut. “Let’s go.”

Hatchet Face looked over his partner’s head at Charlie, his thin lips breaking into a smile like a shark’s. “Maybe we can come back later.”

Shorty shook his head once, warningly, yanking on his partner’s arm. “You call 911 if you hear anything, ma’am.” His voice tried for professionalism again, failing miserably.

“Yes, I’ll do that,” Charlie whispered, watching the two men stomp off down the hall. Hatchet Face looked back once, his stare making her feel slimy and cold.

With shaking hands, Charlie shut her door and engaged the dead bolt, wishing she had something more than it and the flimsy chain to put between her and those men. Like a steel door and a couple of giant rottweilers. Thank god for Dan Olson downstairs and his habit of stumbling home blind drunk every other Saturday night.

A faint melody caught her ears over the pounding of her heart.

She ran toward the sound, unsurprised when it led her straight back to the door of the spare bedroom. Charlie pushed it open to see the man still crumpled on her floor. He was real.

This was real.

And so was the blood.

Charlie fell down beside him, her legs weak. Gingerly, she pulled his flashing phone from under his limp, outstretched hand, laying her free one on his shoulder and squeezing. He didn’t stir. The phone continued to hum.

Shivering, she ran a thumb over the cracked and bloody screen. She didn’t say hello, her throat tight. The name of the song clicked in her numb brain just as it shut off. “Ball and Chain.” Janis Joplin.

“Jake, you son of a bitch!” A woman’s voice answered before Charlie could speak. A woman with an accent to match the man on the floor. Who must be Jake. “You were supposed to call twenty minutes ago. What the—”

“Hello,” Charlie interrupted, her own voice cracking. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, but this isn’t Jake.”

A long pause. “Obviously not. Where in the hell is Jake?”

“He’s . . .” Charlie swayed, her fingers tightening on the warm body next to hers. “He’s right here, but he’s—he’s hurt really bad. I think he’s been shot.”

“Typical fucking Jake.” The woman cursed, but there was a ring of abject terror behind the flippancy. “What happened?”

“There were some men here looking for him. Scary men.” Her stomach rolled again and went cold as the fish-scale eyes of the skinny man with the hatchet face flashed in Charlie’s head. “They said they were police but he—your Jake said they weren’t. And I think he was right, there was something . . . wrong with them.”

With wide eyes, Charlie watched Jake’s blood stretching slow, scarlet fingers over her hardwood floors, reaching for her outstretched leg. “I-I don’t think he’s going to make it. I’m sorry.” Her voice came out in a terrified whisper as she stroked the man’s thick dark hair, her own fingers trembling.

“Oh, he’ll make it. He’ll make it, or I’ll kill him.” The woman’s voice had hardened into pure steel. “But you’re going to have to help us.”

“Me?” Charlie’s voice squeaked out. “No. No, I can’t. I need to call an ambulance—”

“Listen to me— What’s your name?”

“Charlotte. Charlotte Gracen.” Her voice broke. “Charlie.”

“Okay, Charlie, you listen to me.” The woman’s words were low and urgent. Commanding. “You cannot fucking do that. You do that and Jake—and you—are definitely gonna die tonight. You hear me, Charlie?”

“But, I—”

“No buts! Those men who came to your door, those are the men who hurt Jakey. You can’t even imagine how dangerous— Christ! Trust me on this, Charlie. They’ll be monitoring 911 and the police scanners. If they hear you call in, they’ll come back. They’ll come back and kill you both. And these are the kind of people that will enjoy it.”

“But, he’s gonna die anyway if he doesn’t get help!”

“No, he isn’t. ’Cause he’s got you. You’re gonna save my baby brother, Charlie girl. Aren’t you?” The words had turned hard, but Charlie could hear the brittle desperation beneath the surface. Brother. Her fingers sank into that tangled mass of dark hair as she gritted her teeth. He was someone’s brother.

She could do this. Not for the woman on the phone or even for the man on the floor. But for Emily.

“Yes,” she whispered, willing herself to believe it. “Yes, I am.”

“Good girl. Now here’s what we’re gonna do.”