Matthew Collins realized something was wrong the instant he heard footsteps behind him in the rain soaked driveway of his suburban home outside Chicago, because they were not hurried steps and they were not unfamiliar, but measured and unmistakably belonging to someone who had been living under his roof for months. His chest tightened as he turned slowly, every movement feeling heavier than it should have been, and when he lifted his eyes toward the second floor window, he saw a woman standing motionless behind the glass, a wineglass resting loosely in her hand, her posture stiff in a way that made his skin prickle with unease.
It was his sister, Denise Collins.
She did not wave or call out. She only watched him with an expression he could not read from that distance, though something in the way she stood, rigid and alert, sent a warning through his body that he could not explain.
“Denise?” Matthew murmured, though his voice barely left his throat.