Page 2 of The Hidden Heir

I lean toward the window, slow, and look through the gap in the curtain.

There's a car across the street. Black, long, parked nose-out between the Hendersons' minivan and the Riveras' SUV. Engine off. Lights off. It doesn't belong here.

Someone is sitting inside.

So much for the chamomile.

My heart slams once, hard, like a fist on a door. And then the actual door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The mug jumps in my hand. Tea scalds my wrist and I barely feel it.

Nobody knocks on my door. Not at night. Not ever. The landlord texts. The mailman leaves packages. In two years I have made sure, carefully and deliberately and obsessively sure, that there is no one on this earth who would stand on my porch after dark.

"Mama?"

Mikey's voice, small and blurry, from his room. The knock woke him.

"It's okay, baby," I call. My voice comes out steady. Good. Lie convincingly, because nothing about this is okay.

I set the mug down without looking and go get him. I don't even decide to; my feet just take me there, and then he's in my arms.

"I'm here."

His head drops onto my shoulder like that's enough. Like those two words can make anything true.

Some animal part of my brain is calmer with his weight in my arms. Another part is screaming that I've just carried my son toward the danger. But I can't leave him alone in a dark room. Not tonight. Not with a black car on my street and a dead porch light and a knock.

Think.

I stand in my own hallway and I run it. Back door: too exposed. Car keys on the hook, car in the drive, Mikey's seat already strapped in. Thirty seconds, maybe forty. Shoes? Forget shoes. Diaper bag? Forget the diaper bag. Phone. Keys. Mikey. Go.

Except if someone killed my porch light, someone could be watching the back too. And if the man across the street is watching the front...

I'm not looking at an exit. I'm looking at a trap.

The knock comes again. Three beats. Patient.

Patient is worse than angry. Angry kicks doors in. Patient knows you have nowhere to go.

Mikey's fingers curl into my shirt. "Who dat?"

Jesus.

"No one, baby."

Another lie. I'm on a roll tonight.

I move toward the door. Every step feels wrong. Staying still feels worse.

I look through the peephole.

The porch is dark. Of course it's dark. That's why the light went out. Not a bulb, not Home Depot. Him.

The streetlamp throws just enough gray light to shape him. Tall. Suit. Standing easy, hands loose, like men stand when they have never once had to wonder if they're welcome. He isn't shifting from foot to foot or checking his phone or glancing toward the street. He's standing a half step to the side of the door, out of the streetlamp's line, so nothing behind him can throw his shadow.

Not nervous. Habit.