The Good Sister Read Online Free PDF Page A

stand absolutely still.
    Her mind races through possibilities.
    One, she’s imagining things . . .
    Two, it’s a ghost . . .
    Three, it’s a human prowler.
    Seeing another flicker of movement, she rules out the first option and decides that the second is much more appealing than the third.
    More appealing, but perhaps less likely, especially when she considers the abrupt power outage.
    Someone could have cut the telephone and electric lines, instantly isolating her in the dark.
    The house is locked, of course, with the fancy new dead bolts Bob Witkowski installed for her after she moved in. A hell of a lot of good they do now, with all the windows open.
    Sandra’s own words about the broken screen, spoken so glibly just this morning, come back to haunt her now.
    Anyone could push through it and hop in.
    But it’s such a safe neighborhood . . .
    That doesn’t matter. Someone—some, some night predator —could have easily found his way here.
    Someone could have been watching from the shrub border as she walked from her car to the back door a little while ago. He could have climbed in the window while she was upstairs changing her clothes, lying in wait down here the whole time . . .
    Oh dear God.
    What do I do?
    He’s positioned between Sandra and the back door. If she goes in the opposite direction and makes a run for the front door, he’ll surely catch her before she reaches it.
    There’s a drawer full of knives a few feet away, but she can’t remember which one it is.
    All right. All right. Neither flight nor fight is a reliable option.
    She can scream for help, but chances are no one will hear her above the hum of air-conditioning or window fans.
    What do I do?
    What do I do?
    In the still, dark room, she can feel the predator poised, getting ready to pounce.
    She has to take a chance.
    With a silent prayer— Please, God, please, God —Sandra bursts into motion, running with all her might toward the front of the house, certain she’s going to hear footsteps chasing her, and yet . . .
    Yet there’s nothing, not a hint of movement behind her.
    But he’s there; I know he’s there, and he’s coming.
    I have to get out.
    Cursing the fact that she doesn’t keep the dead bolt key inside the lock, she frantically reaches for the strip of molding above the door, knowing now that the extra second it takes to grab it could very well cost her her life.
    Her straining fingertips settle at the center of the door frame, where she always places the key after locking herself in.
    It isn’t there.
    She fumbles along the shallow ledge a couple of inches to the right, and then to the left.
    No key.
    Biting her trembling lip to keep from crying out in frustration, she swipes her hand across the ledge again, trying to control her movement so that she doesn’t knock the key off and have to dive for it. The ledge is empty.
    How can that be?
    Her mind races. She rarely uses the front door. But whenever she opens it, she puts the key back where it belongs.
    So what happened? Where is it?
    It doesn’t matter. She’s trapped.
    Any second now, he’s going to grab her from behind . . .
    She spins around.
    He isn’t there.
    Was her mind playing tricks on her after all?
    Of course. It makes sense.
    Who doesn’t start imagining scary things when the lights go out?
    Relieved, Sandra presses a hand against her pounding heart.
    Okay. Okay. I’m okay. It was a false alarm.
    But . . .
    What about the missing key?
    And why did the lights go out?
    And how did the living room windows wind up closed and locked?
    Even as the questions flit into her mind, even as her pulse slows to a slightly less frantic rhythm, she hears it . . .
    The unmistakable sound of a floorboard creaking in the kitchen.
    Someone is there.
    Someone is coming.
    Steady footfalls approach.
    Sandra looks around wildly for something to throw through the window.
    Before she can make a move, a voice—eerily calm, jarringly familiar—says from the