Her grip tightened on the grocery bag.
It’s nothing, she told herself. Someone visiting. Someone lost. Someone waiting.
Grace kept walking.
She was almost home—the familiar white siding, the porch light she’d left on glowing soft and steady.
She climbed the sagging steps and shifted the grocery bag to her other hand, fishing her keys from her pocket.
That was when she heard footsteps behind her. Heavy and deliberate.
Grace’s pulse jumped. She turned, keys held out like they would be any sort of weapon.
The man stood at the bottom of her porch steps. He was thin but wiry, all angles and narrow lines, skin catching the porch light with a faint, greasy sheen. His hands were loose at his sides. His face was half-shadowed beneath the porch light, features indistinct but intent.
“Evening,” he said.
Her stomach dropped.
“Can I help you?” Grace asked, keeping her voice even. Trying to project calm authority. Like every woman learned to do when fear crept up her spine.
He smiled slightly. It wasn’t a friendly smile.
“You live here,” he said. Not a question. He took a step closer.
Grace’s heart began to hammer.
“I was hoping to catch you alone,” he said.
Her skin prickled. “You need to leave.”
He didn’t move.
“You’ve got a brother staying with you,” he continued casually. “Eli.”
Grace’s breath caught before she could stop it. “I don’t know who you are.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “I know who you are.”
He was close enough that she could smell him. Oil and smoke and something sharp beneath it.
Grace backed up until her spine hit the door.
“Step away from me,” she said, louder now.
He tilted his head, studying her. “You’re calmer than I expected.”
Her fingers shook around her keys.
“People like you usually scream,” he went on. “Or cry.”
“I said step away,” Grace repeated.
Instead, he lifted his hand.
Grace flinched despite herself.
His fingers brushed her hair—just a light touch near her temple, tucking it back, behind her ear. The gesture was intimate in a way that made bile rise in her throat.
