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I get downstairs, and that bubble of purpose pops. Suddenly, the couch and a coffee and my book seem like a far more tempting combo. I brew a pot and take my book onto the sofa. No sitting room for me just yet. That’s a little too isolated in a predawn house where everyone else is sound asleep.

I’m halfway through my coffee when a sound comes from the hallway. The click of a door latch. Someone must be up early. I’ll tell them there’s a pot of coffee ready.

I head into the hall. It’s empty. The door I figured I’d heard click shut is the one to the bathroom. It’s wide open, and the light is off. So what did I…?

The basement door is open.

I blink. I must be seeing wrong. It seems to be just barely ajar, as if someone pulled it shut but it didn’t latch.

I walk over.

The door is definitely ajar. The knob turns easily in my hand.

It was locked last night.

No, it was locked an hour ago when I checked it.

It’s open now, though.

Was Brodie in the basement and now he’s up here?

I shake my head sharply. I’ve read too many weird news stories where someone moves into a new house and discovers a stranger living in the attic. The attic would make sense—there’s probably a window to climb in and out. But a windowless basement, where they could only come and go through the house?

Also, if Brodie wanted to flee, he’d have come up in the middle of the night. Same if he wanted to murder us all in our sleep.

Yeah, I’ve definitely read too many stories.

We aren’t dealing with a killer in the basement. If it were even remotely possible that Brodie had been down there, it was because he was looking for a place to sleep. Maybe he had a fight with his mother and snuck into the basement to sleep… only to realize too late that the house was occupied and he didn’t dare come upstairs again.

But there are cars in the drive. Two of them. He’d haveknownthe house was occupied.

As I’m working this through, I’m on the move. I check the front door. It’s locked.

I circle through the main level. Empty. The rear entrance is also locked.

I end up back at the basement door. There’s no one in the house, and no sign that anyone left. I haven’t heard a footstep or a creaking board. Just the click of this door opening, as if from a change in air pressure.

As if it hadn’t been locked.

But it was just an hour ago.

Am I sure? Apparently, I hallucinated an old newspaper and dripping blood around the same time.

I rub my temples. Then I open the door wide. Making sure I have my cell phone in my pocket, I turn on the light, and I head down, one step at a time with my hand firmly on the railing.

At the bottom, I glance over my shoulder. The door atop the stairs is still open. I check my phone. I have three bars. All good.

No, all is not good. You are in a basement that has beenlockedsince you arrived.

“Hello?” I call.

Yes, because clearly the serial killer hiding down here will answer you.

That’s ridiculous. There can’t possibly be a serial killer down here. The probability of both a killer and a ghost being in the same house is infinitesimal.

I snort a laugh under my breath.

Maybe it’s a serial-killing ghost. Or the ghost of a serial killer. Dad always said I was an overachiever. A mere ghost or mere killer wouldn’t be enough for me.