Everything I need.
I get out of the truck.
Walk up to the front door and ring the bell.
There are footsteps inside and the door opens.
She's pretty, in a tired kind of way.
Blonde hair going gray at the roots.
Lines around her eyes that speak to years of stress.
Mid-forties, maybe.
Wedding ring on her finger.
"Can I help you?" she asks.
I smile.
"Mrs. Tomlinson? Susie?"
"Yes?"
"I'm a friend of your husband's. He asked me to stop by, pick something up for him."
She frowns. "He didn't mention?—"
I move before she can finish.
One hand over her mouth.
The other grabbing her arm.
I push her inside, and kick the door shut behind us.
She's screaming against my palm—muffled, useless.
I spin her around, press her back against the wall, and pull the knife from my belt.
The blade rests against her throat.
Cold steel on warm skin.
"Don't scream," I say quietly. "Don't fight. Doexactlywhat I say, and you might survive this. Understand?"
Her eyes are wild with terror.
Tears stream down her face.
But she nods.
"Good. I'm going to move my hand. If you scream, I'll cut your throat. If you run, I'll catch you and make it hurt. Understood?"
Another nod.
I remove my hand.
