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She kept it all these years. But why? And why is she reading it now?

I grab it and the second book beneath it.

I don’t know why I want these things, but I do.

They called to me somehow. Knowing what she’s reading feels like a way to get into her head.

We used to trade books back and forth every single week, devouring them the way most of the other students devoured movies and dumb TV shows.

We had our own private book club of two and it felt like a special secret thing just for us.

I put the books in my bag and duck into the en suite bathroom in case I need to hide from whoever is in the house.

I lock the door behind me. The countertop is littered with skincare products, pill bottles, and even toothpaste stains.

There’s a massive claw-foot tub in the corner with a white linen shower curtain surrounding it.

I climb inside and pull the curtain closed, my heart beating in the back of my throat.

But as hard as I listen, I can’t hear anything outside of this room.

There’s a window behind the tub. Having a beautiful view from the bath and shower has always felt like the epitome of luxury to me.

I once stayed at a hotel in Paris on an assignment and the bathroom had a view of the Eiffel Tower that I still dream about.

We have a window in the shower of our suburban house, but it looks out over the trash cans in our driveway and part of Marvin’s backyard, which is more sad than luxurious.

This window looks out on the wide expanse of the ranch.

I squint into the sun to see if there are any more vehicles on the property.

A massive pickup truck is now in the main driveway, one of those trucks that is almost too big to be functional, the kind you hear about running over kids because the tires are literally taller than a six-year-old.

I hear another door slam downstairs. The truck’s owner is in the house banging around.

I pull out my phone and think about who I should text because right now no one knows I’m here and if I went missing no one would know where to look for me.

There’s only one person any of this would make sense to.

I’m in your house and I’m not alone.

Bex’s phone has been going straight to voicemail and for all I know it’s on the bottom of a lake somewhere, but I need there to be proof that I was here.

I can’t text Peter. The way I ended up in this bathtub on a ranch in the middle of nowhere is too confusing and he’ll call me and freak out when I don’t answer and then call the police because that’s exactly what a rational husband would do. Who else can I text?

There is one other person.

I open my email app and scroll through to Olivia’s last message, containing the information about Bex’s deal. In her signature is a cell number. I have no idea if it will go to her or to a stable of assistants, but I have to try.

I’m in Rebecca’s house and someone just came in.

I see the three dots. I see them deciding to write back.

Is it Rebecca?

It’s a man, I think.

Is it Gray? lol

Olivia has a dark-ass sense of humor.

They’re driving a massive white pickup truck. Sound familiar?

No

More dots.

Where are you in the house?

In her bedroom, hiding in the bathtub.

Do you want me to call the police? Because they may also arrest you for trespassing

She gave me the keys.

My phone rings and I quickly push it to voicemail.

I obviously can’t talk.

When did you see Rebecca to get keys to her house?

I didn’t. She left me keys at the hotel. Or at least I think it was her.

A door slams downstairs. There’s no more time for small talk with Olivia.

I press my back against the cool porcelain of the bathtub, my breath heaving in shallow gasps.

Footsteps, slow and deliberate, echo down below.

They move from room to room, methodically searching for something.

Doors and drawers are opened and closed.

The air chokes in my throat as the footsteps approach the staircase.

I’m coming out there. It will take me an hour, but I’m coming. Get the hell out of that house and meet me at the front gate

I can’t even make my fingers move to respond.

A creak on the stairs. They’re coming up.

I drop the phone into my bag and clutch the edge of the bathtub to push myself to stand.

This massive window opens outward and there’s no screen.

We’re above the garage so I could theoretically climb out and then try to find a way down.

It seems almost too easy, but then it always seems too easy when someone just climbs out a window in a horror movie right when the ax murderer walks into the room.

What if I get out there and there’s no way off the garage roof?

Also, I’m an uncoordinated, out-of-shape mother of two small children with no core muscles or pelvic floor. I’m not a ninja or a cat burglar.

I strain my ears to hear whether the footsteps are getting closer. Have they stopped? Are they listening to me? For me? Am I the reason they’re here searching this house?

The bedroom door opens. They’re just a wall away. I’m screwed. This is it. I hear the opening and closing of drawers. They’re doing exactly what I just did, maybe looking for the same things. Maybe looking for evidence.

I hear the rustle of sheets. Are they climbing into the bed?

No. Something hits the floor, knees maybe.

There’s a soft shuffling of someone crawling.

They must be checking under the bed, a place I didn’t think to look.

I hold my breath for all the good that will do.

Moments later I hear the footsteps again.

Closer and closer. They’re turning the knob, but it’s locked. They jiggle it harder and harder.

As I inspect the window, my bag slips from my shoulder, all the contents clattering onto the bottom of the tub.

The jiggling stops. They’re listening to me. Despair tugs at my gut and my limbs turn to liquid.

As I clumsily stuff everything back in, something flutters from inside the pages of one of the books.

Two things. Polaroid pictures. They land close to the drain and I grab them and stuff them in my bag without pausing to see the images.

I push open the window as slowly as I can, but it creaks anyway.

Someone bangs on the door, but they say nothing. What will it take to break it down?

Get the fuck out of the window, Lizzie .

I push myself and go headfirst through the frame, sort of crawling, sort of scrambling.

I get stuck midway through, trying to hoist the lower part of my body up.

This is so much more difficult than it looks in movies and I hate myself for even trying it, but there’s no turning back now.

I’m committed. I finally make it onto the roof.

My brain spins as I pull myself into a crouch and look out over the horizon.

I stay in that position, slowly inching toward the edge, keeping all four limbs firmly attached to the slate at all times.

I pretend I’m a praying mantis in one of those nature shows my kids love to watch.

Nearby, a sturdy-looking trellis leans against the side of the house, its wooden frame weathered but still intact. I carefully maneuver toward it, testing its strength with a firm tug. Satisfied, I grip the rungs tightly and begin to descend, using the crossbars and thick vines for support.

The trellis groans softly under my weight but holds steady as I descend step by step. I keep my movements slow and deliberate, ensuring my footing on each rung and avoiding any sudden shifts that could dislodge the structure.

I reach the ground with a soft thud and land relieved and grateful.

I glance at the front door. It’s slightly ajar, but I don’t see anyone.

I stare at the pickup truck and have the briefest moment of clarity.

I whip out my cell phone and take a picture of the license plate.

There’s no reason to hesitate even a moment longer.

I break out into a run for the car. I haven’t run in about ten years and even then I was a half-hearted jogger at best. Adrenaline and terror both help, but by the time I make it to the rental car my chest is heaving.

There’s a fire in my lungs and a stitch in my side that feels like I’m being stabbed.

I look up at the house in the distance and swear I see a face in the bathroom window I just climbed out of, but it has to be my mind playing tricks on me.

It’s too far for me to see anything. I’m paranoid.

I get behind the wheel and peel out toward the back entrance to the ranch.

This car doesn’t have four-wheel drive and it hates the speed I’m using.

I hit something large and possibly sharp.

I keep going, not worrying if it pierced the tire.

With the gate in sight, I slam on the brakes and rush out, punching in the numbers.

It beeps angrily back at me. Someone has changed the code. I’m trapped.

I try again. My fingers don’t work. They’re made of jelly. Maybe I’ve done it wrong. Do I hear an engine behind me?

The gate is once again pissed at me. I know my keypad at home locks you out for at least twenty minutes after three wrong tries. I can’t fuck this up. I pull in a deep breath and concentrate. Alice’s birthday . One number at a time, Lizzie. Go slow. Be deliberate.

The creak of the gate opening is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. I say a prayer to a god I haven’t thought about since childhood and get back into the car and check the rearview mirror. No one is behind me. I’ve made it out.