The house was quiet while she sat in her parents’ living room, listening to the patter of the rain falling outside as she finished her fifth glass of wine of the evening. She would fly back to Los Angeles first thing in the morning since she wanted to extend this holiday visit as long as possible. Headed back to reality didn’t sound like much fun. She’d rather hide away a little longer. But as usual, work called.

She leaned her head back on the couch and closed her eyes, aiming for a Zen-like attitude, the stem of the glass still clutched between her fingers. The last five days in her hometown of Marin had been about family¸ old friends, and reconsidering her future. Did she still want to be doing the same thing ten years from now? She wasn’t getting any younger. She’d be forty years old next year, and there were a bazillion young blond bitches dying to take her spot.

It wasn’t that she was ungrateful for what she had. A successful career, a lot of money in the bank, and some celebrity status—but her personal life suffered from too much ambition. She couldn’t remember the last time she went out on a date. She’d always envisioned herself becoming a mother one day and used to play with baby dolls all the time when she was a little girl.

But she didn’t think children were in the picture after all. She could adopt, but what kind of mom would she be, working all the time? And did she really want to keep working like this? It had become such a grind.

There was a soft knock at the door and at first she thought she imagined it, sitting up straight, her entire body still as she listened for something, anything to indicate someone was outside. But no, she heard it again. A gentle rap against her parents’ grand wooden front door, three times.

Knock, knock, knock.

She placed the empty wineglass on a nearby table, her fingers shaking. No one knocked on the door at—she checked her phone—11:17 p.m., especially in her parents’ affluent neighborhood.

It came again. Harder this time, a little more insistent.

Knock, knock, knock.

Slowly she rose from the couch, pushing the hair away from her face, straightening her sweater. She tiptoed as she approached the door, thankful the curtains were drawn tight on the giant front window that faced the street. She could hardly breathe, barely made a sound when it came again, startling her since she was so close.

Knock, knock, knock.

And then she heard a voice, soft and coaxing. Masculine.

Familiar.

“Lisa . . . I know you’re in there . . .”

She frowned at the front door, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling slithering down her spine, the sudden goosebumps that raced across the back of her arms. Damn her sleeping parents for not wanting to ruin the aesthetic of their medieval-style door by putting in a peephole. She’d at least know who was on the other side of that stupid behemoth door right now.

Pressing against the cool wood, she rested her hand on it and whispered close to the crack where the door meets the frame, “Who is this?”

“Open the door and you’ll find out.”

She reared back, her mind scrambling, trying to place the voice. A few nights ago she’d run into an old ex-boyfriend from high school at a bar while out with a friend. He looked good. Incredible, in fact. Recently divorced, a couple of kids, successful real estate broker with a Rolex on his wrist and a too-white smile. She could handle that. Saw them all the time in L.A. He gave her his number and she immediately texted him so he could have hers.

Wouldn’t he text first before he came over? And would he really come over this late on a Sunday night? But who else could it be? She hadn’t seen anyone while she’d been here, not beyond a few female friends she grew up with. No one knew she was here, not really. She kept her whereabouts fairly private.

Stiffening her spine, she reached for the door handle. It was curiosity that made her so damn good at her job. Fearlessness was another trait. She wasn’t scared of shit. Certainly not some guy she went to high school with who was creeping on her parents’ front porch. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea giving him her number after all.

Oh well. She’d scare him off and send him on his way with his tail tucked between his legs.

Still clutching the door handle, she reached with her other hand and turned the lock as quietly as possible, undoing it before she threw open the door, hoping to surprise him.

But she was the one who was surprised. Her mouth fell open when she saw who was standing there, a leering smile on his dirt-streaked face. His eyes were wild and bright, his clothes soaked from the incessant rain, and she tried to scream but no sound came out.

He rushed toward her, his hand going to her mouth, fingers clamping over her lips so tight she started to panic, her arms flailing as she reached for his hand to pull it away, her bare feet scrambling against the slick tile floor.

“Shut the fuck up,” he whispered harshly, thrusting his face in hers, his eyes huge, pupils dilated. “Keep quiet and no one else gets hurt. You got keys to one of those cars out there?”

Hanging on the rack only a few feet away, yes she did. She nodded furiously, trying her best not to inhale too deeply. Too afraid he might smother her. And she could almost taste him—salt and sweat and dirt. His fingers tightened, his smile grew, and she screamed beneath his hand, trying to kick at him. He lifted his knee, fast and hard, jamming it in her stomach, and she bent over, trying to suck in breaths, her head spinning from the pain.

“Let’s grab those keys and get the fuck out of here.” He jerked on her hair with his other hand, pulling so hard the sting was unbearable. It felt like he was pulling her hair out of her scalp. “Now, bitch.”

She did as he said, trembling almost uncontrollably. How did he get out? When did it happen? Did they know he’s gone? And how did he find her?

He smiled when she pointed out where the keys were and he grabbed the set with the Mercedes key fob. “Fancy car for a fancy girl?” His hand moved away from her mouth and she sucked in a breath, but it wasn’t enough. Her lungs seized, shrinking smaller and smaller, as if she couldn’t draw a breath, and she knew she was going to have a panic attack.

“Get your shit together. We gotta go.” He hooked his arm through hers and led her to the still-open door. Her parents slept like the dead. Her mom always put in her earplugs and her dad used a white-noise machine. They couldn’t hear her.

No one could.

“I-I don’t have any sh-shoes,” she stuttered, indicating her bare feet.

Aaron Monroe threw back his head and laughed. “That’s what you’re worried about? Funny how all you bitches freak out over the smallest things.” His laughter died, and there was an eerie gleam in his eyes. “Let’s go.”

Fear slid over her, chilling her skin, her bones, her soul.

She was as good as dead.