Page 112 of Paranoid

“Where are you?” Sleep deprived, she was already on edge, the lack of visibility only heightening her anxiety. And she didn’t need to be playing hide-and-seek with a rambunctious dog. “Come on, boy.”

Searching the gloom, Rachel walked the line of the shrubs and plants, all the little markers the dog favored, but she didn’t see any hint of a wagging tail or shiny eyes peering through the mist.

“Reno?” She was starting to get a bad feeling about this, but steadfastly tamped it down. The dog loved to play catch-me-if-you-can at times. “Come!”

Nothing.

Don’t freak.

He’s here. He’s got to be.

Or...

She walked to the side yard and the gate that was rarely opened except when they were mowing the lawn as it was on the far side of the house, and, sure enough, it wasn’t latched. The resulting span, a six-inch gap, was perfect for the dog to slip through. Her heart jolted. Not only was the gate never left open, but Reno wasn’t likely to roam far. She thought of the weird text and the ugly message written on her door. And then there were the murders....

Goose bumps traveled up her arms.

Don’t go there!

“Reno, come!” She moved carefully through mist, squinting at shadows and cursing the ever-changing weather. No sign of the dog in the side yard. Her heart was thudding. She thought about rousting the kids for help, but she didn’t want to take the time. And she didn’t want to disturb the neighbors.

Her voice was stern, commanding, hiding the panic in her heart. “You come!”

Nothing.

No response.

The garden beds in front of the house were empty. Time to trespass to the Pitts’ house. Gingerly, she crept onto their lush grass. She checked the shadows by the rock wall and the fat pots of impatiens on either side of their porch.

No dog.

She moved on to the next house, the Giordanos’. Didn’t know them well. She hoped they weren’t watching her stalk through their yard. “Reno!”

And then she heard it, a low, anxious moan.

She froze.

Reno? Or . . .

Through the fog, she heard the rustle of leaves behind her. Her heart stilled. Why the devil hadn’t she brought her pepper spray or . . . She spun, squinting into the garden, and saw the movement of a tail whipping frantically at the base of a thick hydrangea bush, the silhouette of her shepherd mix visible.

The dog was moaning anxiously, running to the fence, standing on his back legs. He gave a sharp, anxious bark, and

from high above, hidden in the fog, came the returning chatter of a squirrel.

“Oh. Geez. You nearly gave me a heart attack,” she said. “Reno, come. Now.” Two dark eyes appeared as the dog bounded up to her, all innocence and playfulness. “Not in the mood,” Rachel said, relief chasing away her fears. “Come on. Let’s go.” She snapped her fingers and Reno kept up with her as they headed to the front of the Giordanos’ property. “You scared the hell out of me, you know,” she scolded, but the dog just trotted beside her, tongue lolling, tail in the air.

Rachel moved quickly now, this time in the street to avoid trampling anyone’s lawn or flowers. She went back through the side gate and, mentally berating herself for being such a ninny, she secured the latch.

That was when she saw the footprint. Large. Distinctive. The impression of a boot or shoe in the bark dust near the gatepost. It hadn’t been there the night the door was vandalized. Right? Surely she would have seen it. She considered all the times she’d felt that she was being watched, that some voyeur was eyeing her, and her skin crawled again.

It’s a footprint. Nothing more. Maybe made by Dylan or one of his friends? Even that seems a stretch.

Get a hold of yourself!

Gritting her teeth, telling herself that she was overreacting, she followed Reno to the back porch and into the kitchen again.

Harper was waiting in pajamas, her hair a mess, her eyes sunken. “Where’d you go?” she asked, opening a cupboard and searching for a cup.