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toothbrush without flooding the floor. She snapped the shower curtain open.
          The Ivory was there, within reach. She gripped the smooth bar in one hand. As she retreated behind the curtain again, a shadow passed the open bathroom door.
          Sylvia's heart stuttered. She caught her fear instantly, held it back, and rationalized: Matt's home .
          She called his name.
          The silence stung. She left the water running but stepped out of the shower. Another shadow across the doorway. This time, candlelight. She allowed herself a full breath. But still she moved quickly. She pulled her T-shirt over her head; it clung to her wet body. Telling herself she was overreacting, she checked the hall and moved into the bedroom. The walls seemed to slant inward; the room appeared smaller than usual. She perched on the edge of the bed and reached across the Pendleton blanket. Matt's off-duty revolver was in the bed holster—loaded. She used a two-handed grip and started back toward the hall. Something caught her eye. The back door had been forced. It hung ajar on its hinges.
          Someone was inside.

CHAPTER FIVE
    S YLVIA FROZE IN her tracks. Her heart was pounding against her chest, her breath caught in her throat. A voice in her brain kept screaming, Get out .
          She shifted the revolver and pivoted to escape through the door. A shadow hovered, disappeared, just as sharp pain raced across her right side. No shadow could deliver such a blow. Heat followed pain. Her eyes filled with tears. She stumbled from the force of the kick, her torso twisted, knees buckled. The air had been knocked out of her lungs. The room swam.
          Candlelight caught the side of her attacker's face, and Sylvia cried out.
          Teeth white against the wide, blackened mouth. Skin coated with a muddy pigment. No eyes, just dark holes the size of fists. Reddish stripes smeared across both cheeks.
          Before Sylvia could react defensively, a gloved hand shoved her against the bed. Metal cleats on a black boot tore through her T-shirt and her skin. The pain was searing.
          The fingers of her left hand closed around the butt of the revolver. She shifted her body, transferred the gun to her right hand and raised it to defend herself. Her attacker was gone.
          She stayed there, numb, unable to move even when she felt the blood ooze across her abdomen.
    M ATT CUT THE turn sharp, and the Chevy's bumper scraped the fence that bordered Salazar Elementary. An S.F.P.D. patrol car was parked behind Sylvia's Volvo. Two uniforms were bent toward the Volvo's passenger window. The cops looked tense. One of them tried the door handle.
          It was midnight, but Matt's beeper had gone off thirty minutes earlier when he happened to be trekking an arroyo by moonlight a half mile from his vehicle, in search of a stolen U-haul. To cover the eighteen miles between Budaghers and his trailer, Matt topped one hundred miles an hour up the interstate. Cars in the right lane were buffeted by the wake of the Caprice. Bumpers pulsed red. He only slowed when he exited I-25 at Cerrillos Road.
          Matt parked the Caprice next to the Volvo. One of the uniforms raised a hand in recognition. Manny Ruiz was the shortest law enforcement officer in the state; rumor had it he perched on a telephone directory when he drove. Matt knew him from the academy; Manny had aced Criminal Procedure.
          "She locked herself in the car," Manny said.
          The second uniform was a woman. She pressed both hands to her hips as she spoke. "We got her statement, checked out your trailer. We can dust, but she told us the guy wore leather gloves." She nodded toward the Volvo. "She wouldn't let us in—"
          "Shock," Manny Ruiz explained to the night air.
          "The bleeding slowed down," the female uniform said.
          Matt brushed past the officers. He leaned against the Volvo's flank and