"Those are called trees," Paul said. "They talk about them in the brochure. They come with the house – if you upgrade the cabinets."

Paul restarted the car and continued on to the top of the hill, where he stopped again so I could see all the houses in our neighborhood. They were beautiful, what else? New England-style colonials, maybe a half dozen of them, well spaced and landscaped down a rolling valley.

"Okay," I said, "what's the downside? Where's the catch? We're right in the landing path of an airport?"

"Sorry," Paul said as we began making our way back down the hill. "Greenridge has an ordinance against downsides. Besides, we've had enough downsides to last a couple of lifetimes."

Paul didn't know the half of it.

WE PASSED AN ENORMOUS PLAYGROUND, tennis courts, a manicured baseball field. I looked out at the precisely laid, brand-new white lines. Yep, it looked like a real neighborhood. Leave It to Beaver's maybe. My head continued to spin.

The sun was almost completely gone when we stopped in front of a large house beside a park with a stream.

"What's this? The sales office?" I said.

Paul shook his head. He took out a key.

"It's the clubhouse," he said. "C'mon, I'll show you the lay of the land."

Inside were conference rooms, several flat-screen TVs, a well-stocked weight room. Fliers on the bulletin board touted babysitting and block parties. There was a sign-up sheet for something called a progressive dinner at one-fifty a head.

"And they're putting in a pool in the spring," Paul said, plopping down on a leather couch in the vaulted lobby space.

"How can…," I started. "Even with your raise, this seems…"

"The houses are expensive, but it's pretty far from the city, so it's less than you think. My new salary will cover us and then some. You want to see our house? At least it will be ours – if you love it as much as I do."

I put up my hand.

"Just give me a second to pick up my jaw first."

There was a halo of last light over the western hills as we pulled off the paved drive onto a dirt road that was still under construction. We crawled slowly past mounds of broken rock and heavy machinery.

"I need to take it slow," Paul said. "There are nails and bolts scattered around from the construction. Don't want to get a flat. Wait, we're here."

The dove-gray house Paul pulled in front of was… well, perfect. I took in the front porch, the soaring brick chimney, the graceful dormers on the third floor. Wait a second – there was a third floor? Everything looked done except the landscaping, which I was quite certain would be wonder-ful, too.

"C'mon," Paul said. "I'll show you the master suite."

"Are we allowed to be here? Don't we have to wait until the closing? Are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure," Paul said with a laugh. "I'll leave the headlights on so we can see where we're going."

We walked over the mounded dirt, and Paul opened the unlocked front door. Suddenly he threw me over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and pretended to trip as he brought me across the threshold. Our laughter and footsteps echoed off the gleaming hardwood floors. "I love it already," I whispered. "I really love it, Paul."

Paul showed me where everything would be. I could hardly take in the airplane hangar-size kitchen, my eyes darting from maple to granite to stainless steel. Even in the dark, the tree-covered hills out the windows were breathtaking.

"And this is where the nursery could go," Paul said, hugging me in one of the upstairs rooms.

Outside the "nursery" window, stars were twinkling like diamond dust in the midnight-blue sky just above the dark treetops. My tears started flowing then. It was suddenly real. Our baby would grow up in this room. I saw myself holding a sweet-smelling, cooing bundle and pointing out the constellations, the rising moon.

Paul wiped away the tears on my face and kissed the ones on my throat.

"That bad, huh?" he whispered.

Then, as suddenly as I'd started, I stopped crying.

Because at that moment, the headlights of Paul's car, which had been lighting the house, suddenly went out.

The tears went cold on my cheeks as the house turned as black as the spaces between the stars.

"WHAT THE -?" Paul said in the dark. "Is it the battery? You have any idea, Lauren?"

I stared at him. What the hell was going on? Whatever it was, I didn't like it.

"Hey, wait. I know," Paul said. "My fault. I saw the tank was low yesterday, and I forgot to fill it. All this driving, we must have run out of gas."

"Are you sure?" I said. I felt a little panicked actually. Guess I wasn't really used to the country yet.

"Calm down, Lauren. This isn't the South Bronx, Detective," Paul said and laughed. "I'm positive that's it. There has to be a gas can floating around here with all this construction equipment. You stay here. I'll grab the flashlight and pooch around."

"I'll come with you," I said. The unlit house had gone from cozy to creepy in no seconds flat.

"In those heels?" Paul said.

"Hey," I thought, regaining my senses. "Instead of foraging for fuel, why don't you just call Triple A with your cell phone?" Or better yet, I thought, glancing down the stairs into the darkness, 911.

Paul laughed after a minute.

"That's my Lauren," he said, going into his pocket. "Always have to spoil a little fun with that pesky logic."

His hand came out empty.

"I left my cell charging in the car," he said. "We'll have to use yours."

"It's in my bag on my seat of the car."

"Wait here. I'll go and grab it."

"Be careful," I called to Paul.

"Don't worry about me. This is Connecticut, sweetheart."

THE NEXT FEW MINUTES went by slowly. A cold wind suddenly blew into the house from the window cut-out. I stared out at the swaying trees that now looked like they belonged on the set of The Blair Witch Project. Ghosts couldn't haunt a new construction, could they?

I checked my watch again. Shouldn't Paul be back by now? How long did it take to get a cell phone out of the car?

I stepped toward the stairs with relief when I finally heard Paul's footsteps. He was standing on the open front-door threshold, holding a powerful flashlight. Had he gotten it from the trunk?

"You get through?" I called down.

The flashlight swung toward my face, blinding me. Then heavy footfalls pounded up the stairs.

"Quit it, Paul," I said. "Not funny."

"Wrong, bitch," a strange voice said. Then a rough hand struck my chest, and I was thrown backward to the floor.

Not funny. And not Paul.

For the next half minute, I was unable to do anything. See, breathe, think, speak, make my heart beat. When I was able to concentrate again, I lifted my hand up and squinted at the face of the shadowed figure who was standing with an unnerving stillness behind the blinding flashlight.

"Who are you?" I said.

"You don't know?" the voice said with disgust. "You actually have to rack your brain to come up with a name? You are one amazing bitch."

The flashlight suddenly shifted up to the man's face. Oh, Jesus.

I muffled a scream – which came out as a groan instead.

My lips began trembling as I recalled his mug shot. Dark, soulless eyes above high, pockmarked cheeks.

I was looking at Mark Ordonez.

The recently deceased Victor's brother!

Where was my gun? was my next thought.

A soft, metallic click sounded beside the light. "You left it in the car, dumbass," the drug dealer said, reading my mind.

"Listen, this isn't the way to handle this," I said quickly. "Trust me, it isn't."