Then she screamed for help—loud enough for the neighbors to hear, loud enough for Richard, loud enough for God.
“Sara? What’s all the noise?”
Sara crushed the paper in her fist. Chloe had been buried yesterday. Unless…
“Who are you?” Sara asked.
Footsteps. Heavy. Concerned.
Her stepdaughter, Chloe, was dead.
She found the letter on the marble foyer floor, tucked beneath a vase of wilting lilies. The handwriting was hers. Or rather, a perfect copy of hers.
And for the first time in her life, Sara Stone realized she was not the predator in this house.