“Come here.”

They obeyed, scrambled outside, and Miranda stumbled to the ground.

Freedom.

She heard the distinct sound of a round being chambered into a rifle.

“Run.”

Miranda looked over her shoulder. The man stood in the shadows, a mask over his face, late-afternoon light reflecting off the barrel of his gun.

The realization sucker-punched Miranda. He wanted to hunt them.

“Run. You have two minutes.” He paused. “Run!”

She ran.

Miranda awoke with a start.

Run.

She’d heard his voice.

Sweat poured from her body. She sat up and blinked, swallowing a scream, surprised to find her gun in her hand. When had she grabbed it? In her sleep?

His voice.

No, it was her nightmare. The damn nightmare. He was in her head, taunting her. She had escaped. She had lived. But Sharon was dead. Shot in the back. And Rebecca, hunted down and killed, her neck sliced open like game.

Miranda blinked again, her hands shaking as she forced herself to put down the gun. Moonlight cascaded through the skylights, casting blue-gray shadows across her room.

Her bed was in shambles, the sheets twisted and damp, blankets on the floor. Her flannel pajamas were drenched in her perspiration, the tangible scent of her memories on her skin.

It wasn’t even two in the morning. Four hours of sleep-she was surprised she’d collapsed so quickly after coming home. But she doubted she’d sleep another minute tonight.

She showered the sweat of fear off her skin, dressed in jeans, a turtleneck, and her heavy parka since the May nights were still cool, then left for the Lodge, Gray’s famous pecan pie beckoning her.

She walked in through the side door, which was illuminated by a spotlight. The door was locked, but she had a master key. She crossed the dining hall and was about to enter the kitchen when she heard something.

She paused, her heart beating almost as fast as it had after her nightmare.

Scrape. Scrape. Creak . Then silence.

Tap tap tap.

Silence.

Someone was in the kitchen. Though the moonlight illuminated the Lodge through picture windows, no lights were on. If it were a guest, her father, or an employee, they’d have switched on the lights.

An intruder.

She reached for the gun she’d stuffed in her fanny pack. She hadn’t left home without a gun for twelve years. Cautious but determined, she approached the main kitchen door.

Tap tap scrape.

Bracing herself just inside the door, she reached for the light switch with her left hand while holding her right arm-the one with the gun-steady in front of her.

She mentally counted to three, then hit the switch and cocked her revolver.

A tall, half-naked man spun around, a fork toppling off his plate onto the floor.

“Shit, Miranda! Put the gun down.”

She did, as her mouth fell open. No words came out.

The last person she expected to see creeping around the kitchen was Quinn Peterson.