Part 1 (2/2)

Ned walked into the library. By the window was a mahogany desk. It was lit by the hazy glow of a small electric clock, the kind with those flip-style numbers that turned like those on an old-fas.h.i.+oned scoreboard.

The desk was big, too big for the room. It had three large drawers on the left side of the base.

The only drawer that mattered, though, was the bottom one. It was always kept locked.

Reaching across the desk with both hands, Ned gripped an old coffee mug that was used to hold pencils and pens, erasers and paper clips. After a deep breath, almost as if he were counting to three, he lifted up the mug.

There it was. The key. Just as he'd found it weeks before. Because curious seven-year-old boys can find most anything, especially when they're not supposed to.

Ned took the key in his hand, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger before easing it into the lock on the bottom drawer.

He gave the key a slight twist clockwise until he heard the sound. Click!

Then, ever so carefully, slowly, so as not to make a sound, Ned pulled open the drawer.

And took out the gun.

Three

OLIVIA SINCLAIR SHOT up in bed so fast it made her a little dizzy. Her first thought was that the heat had come on, that G.o.d-awful clanking noise from the pipes that would practically shake the house.

But that's why she always wore the wax earplugs when she went to bed, so she could sleep through it all. The earplugs always worked, too. Not once did she remember waking up in the middle of the night.

Until now.

If that noise wasn't the heat and the pipes, what was it? It had to be something.

Olivia turned to her left to see the time. The clock on the nightstand said 12:20 a.m.

She turned to her right to see the empty pillow next to her. She was alone.

Olivia took out her earplugs and swung her legs off the bed, her bare feet quickly finding her slippers nearby. The second she flipped on the light, she was jolted by another noise. This one she recognized instantly. It was a horrible scream, just awful.

Nora!

Bursting out of the bedroom, Olivia sprinted down the long, narrow hallway toward her daughter's bedroom, where the light was on.

When she turned the corner at the doorway, she felt worse than dizzy. She felt sick to her stomach.

There was blood everywhere. On the floor. On the bed. Splattered on the pink-painted wall between posters of Debbie Gibson and Duran Duran.

<script>