“That’s Brendan Low,” she whispered. “Clare’s stepfather. If he finds her here, he’ll kill her.”
The words hit the air like a thrown knife.
Clare had already begun backing away from the window, folding in on herself, every line of her body trying to make itself smaller.
“Closet,” Helena snapped. “Upstairs closet now. Don’t make a sound.”
She shoved Clare gently but urgently down the hall. I heard a door open, then another smaller one inside it. Then silence.
Helena turned back to me. I could see the calculation in her face, the certainty that I did not understand what kind of danger had just entered the property.
“You need to let me handle this,” she said.
“No,” I said, surprising both of us with how steady my voice sounded.
I stood.
The fear was there. God, it was there. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my gums. But beneath it was something older and fiercer than fear. A girl was hiding in a closet in a house that now belonged to me. A dangerous man was walking up my driveway. That made the next decision simple.
“This is my property,” I said. “If he doesn’t have a warrant or legal authority, he doesn’t come inside.”