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Light glowed up through the stairwell from some lamp around the corner in the living room. Hurley could hear the man’s footsteps, louder now on the hardwood, as he followed him down the stairs.

The man was still in the living room, best as Hurley could figure. He hadn’t moved to the kitchen yet. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would turn around and come back up the stairs.

No matter. It was too late. The man’s fate was sealed the moment he’d walked down those stairs. Hurley would have to kill him, and he would have to do it quietly.

Hurley reached the bottom of the stairs. Touched down on the first floor, stepping lightly, praying the floorboards wouldn’t groan underneath him and give him away. He raised his knife, held it in front of himself, a fighter’s stance. Peered around the corner, scanned the living room for the man.

But the living room was empty. And there was a light on now in the kitchen. The man stood in the space between the two rooms, his back to Hurley. He was of medium build, black hair turning gray. He was staring in at the kitchen. Wasn’t moving.

Hurley knew that wouldn’t last. The man’s sleepy brain would wake up fast once he’d realized what Hurley’s rifle must mean. He would take action, reach for a weapon or the phone, and Hurley couldn’t afford to wait around to see which.

He crossed the living room, knife at the ready, speed the objective now, not silence. The man didn’t hear him at first. He just stood there, scratching his head, mind struggling to compute. By the time he heard Hurley coming, and tensed, half turning, he was already too late.

Hurley closed the distance fast. Reached his free hand around the man’s head, covered his mouth, wrenched his head back. Brought his knife to the man’s throat and cut across, fast. The man struggled. He screamed through Hurley’s left hand, wrenched against Hurley’s grip, kicked, fought for his life. Hurley held firm as the man’s fight diminished, his anger turned to panic. As his arms abandoned Hurley’s grip and went to his own throat, trying in vain to stop the bleeding.

Hurley guided the man deeper into the kitchen, his eye on a pantry closet opposite the back door. The man’s blood pooled beneath him, lakes on the hardwood. His struggles were weakening. He kicked out uselessly now and then, but Hurley held on. Half pulled, half dragged him to the pantry, opened the door with his knife hand, and backed the man inside. Laid him down gently, the man’s fight all but gone. He’d stopped screaming, even, lay back and made dying noises, his eyes wide and staring beyond Hurley, staring at nothing. Hurley waited until he was sure the man was past help. Then he stepped out of the pantry, closed the door behind him. Left the man inside to die in darkness.

The kitchen was an abattoir. Blood spattered the counters, the cabinets, the buzzing fridge. Tracked a grisly trail to the pantry door. There was no hiding this, no cleaning it up. There was only escape before anyone saw.

For the briefest of moments, Hurley indulged the idea of returning to the girl, now that he’d dealt with her father. It was a pleasant idea. But it was foolish as hell. He couldn’t afford the temptation.

Time was wasting. Hurley circled around the kitchen table, dodging the pools of blood at his feet, and retrieved his rifle and the food he’d left out. Spared a glance at the pantry door, the bloody trail, wondered if the man had died knowing he’d saved his daughter’s life. Wondered if the daughter would ever realize just how much she owed her dad.

He crossed to the back door, the keys hanging on the coat hook—Dodge, Toyota, Volkswagen. Hurley lingered over the keys, thinking. Three cars. Three choices.

He decided on the Dodge. American muscle. Was just lifting the keys from the hook when he sensed something behind him, turned, and there she was, in the doorway, the daughter herself, the pretty, wicked beast.

(And she was pretty, in her pajamas, her hair mussed. She looked younger than Hurley had expected, innocent—but he knew her innocence was an illusion.)

The girl stared in at him. Took in his presence by the door, his face, his rifle. Took in the blood on the floor, the counters, the fridge.

Hurley stared back, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then the girl screamed, loud, and ran.