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flipped on the living room light and closed the door, cutting off the Stones in the midst of their endless "whoo-whoos." No wooden blocks awaited her, spelling a cryptic message. She laid her purse on the coffee table and gave a cursory glance around the room to make sure everything was in its place. So far, so good. No sweat. No problem. No Creeps here, ma'am.
    But now the real test came. Could she walk down the hall into the bedroom? Could she look at the clock?
    Sure you can.
    Even though now you know there's at least ONE Creep in Elkwood. A Creep who went to the trouble of binding his victim's hands and feet before eviscerating him. A Creep who knew how to operate the business end of a knife. A Creep who did it slowly, making sure the victim expelled the greatest amount of blood and endured the deepest possible suffering. A Creep who took pride in his work.
    Rick had taken great joy in sharing the grisly details over dinner. He knew she'd worked crime for The Commercial Appeal and hoped to impress her. She had to give him credit for originality. He was the first man who had ever tried to talk his way into her bed with a Satanic murder theory.
    But her bed might already be occupied. That very same murdering Creep might be under her blankets this very moment, his sharp toys carefully resting on the pillow like a lover's flowers. Maybe he had a ring of black candles waiting for the touch of a match. Maybe a red pentagram was painted on the floor, some demon holding its foul breath in anticipation of being summoned.
    Like HELL , she thought, laughing, though the sound came out like the choking of a horse. She accepted the idea of God, something big behind everything. In the house of her head, she could give God a little shelf in the cupboard. But the idea that evil existed beyond the minds of humans, well, that was a wider leap of faith than she could make. She was merely crazy, not bug-brained insane.
    But remember what Dr. Forrest said. You're not crazy. You just suffer from a "behavioral disorder." Something with a safe, handy label like "delusional" or "borderline personality" or "non-specific anxiety" or whatever diagnostic bricks the doctor cared to stack.
    And, ultimately, she was in control of her own behavior. She could walk right into that bedroom, turn on the light, look at the clock, and then get on with the rest of her life. Conjuring up Satanic cults did little for her peace of mind.
    She left the mace in her purse. She could do this alone, just like Dr. Forrest recommended. Down the hall, with every step bringing a slight creak of the floor in the silent house. The bedroom door was open. She reached around the wall, quickly, and flipped the switch.
    The room was empty, her bed neatly made. The digital clock said 10:13. She checked it against her wristwatch. Right on time, just like clockwork. She was about to leave when a draft rippled the curtains. Muffled music leaked into the room from across the road.
    The window was open. Why hadn't Walter shut the window when he finished checking the locks? These mountain people expected everybody to suck down fresh air all the time, even when the mercury dropped.
    Julia frowned and parted the curtains. She didn't have a backyard. The forest grew right up to the rear of the house, the autumn canopy so thick that the distant streetlights couldn't penetrate the trees. The smell of loam and damp wood drifted in the dew. She closed and latched the window. Then she saw the muddy footprint on the floor.
    The print showed only the outline of a heel. A small broken oak leaf was stuck in the tread marks. Walter must have left it.
    Then why hadn't he left tracks all through the house? And he'd wiped his feet well, she'd seen him.
    Julia knelt and touched the print. The dirt was damp.
    Electric worms crawled up her spine.
    Someone's been in the house .
    For real, not for pretend .
    And The Creep might still be here .
    She grabbed the phone off the bedside table. She punched a nine