I step farther back into the closet, and then I’m not in the townhome. I’m standing on the street. I see the man through the window of my mother’s shop, his tall frame and broad shoulders, the dark brown leather jacket that he wears.

I reach for the sleeve, bring the soft cotton cuff to my nose. And in the confined space I swear that it still smells like smoke.

The cuff is stiff in one place and I finger it, know instantly that it’s dried blood.

My mother’s blood is on my hands.

“Grace,” a voice says in my ear, but I don’t move. I can’t. My body no longer belongs to me. It is frozen in the past.

“Grace!” Noah’s hand is on my arm. “We’ve got to get out of here. He’s coming.”

“No!” Megan’s voice rings out just as, downstairs, a door opens and closes.

I look at Noah. He shakes his head. “He’s here.”

Carefully, Noah reaches for the door and pulls it closed. He pushes me farther back into the closet. I’m pressed right up against the leather jacket, wondering how Noah can breathe so deeply in a tiny space that is so filled with smoke.

There is so much smoke.

“You okay?” Noah whispers.

I nod my head and try to slow my breathing, and yet my heart keeps pounding. I think I might throw up.

“What happened?” I whisper. “I thought he was supposed to be gone most of the night?”

Megan hears me over the mic. “He must have a secondary system. The motion detectors went off and now … hide!”

We’re already hiding, but Noah doesn’t say that. He’s too busy looking at me.

“Grace, are you okay?”

“Fine.” I force the word out. I’m grateful for the darkness and the cramped space. Noah is pressing into me. I couldn’t see the door if I tried. There is absolutely no place for me to run or room for me to move. He’s pressing against me so tightly that I can’t even tremble.

“What do we do now?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Noah whispers. “What do people usually do in these situations? I mean … we could make out?” Even in the dark, he reads the look I give him. “Or not. Yeah. I was thinking not.”

I hear footsteps in the bedroom. The closet door opens and closes quickly — just a cursory glance. Noah and I stay shrouded in the shadows.

The phone rings and I hear the Scarred Man answer, but I can’t make out the words.

Is it the alarm company calling to check on the disturbance? His boss calling to ask why he left his post? Wrong number?

I can’t tell.

I’m not sure how long we stand in the dark. I try to focus on my breathing, the rise and fall of Noah’s chest. But I can’t stop thinking about the smoke.

I would do anything to stop thinking about the smoke.

“Okay, guys. On our signal, head for the skylight.” Megan’s whisper is too loud in my ear.

“What’s the signal?” Noah asks, but almost before the words are out we hear it.

There’s a creak as the skylight opens. And then there are cries, screeches.

We go to the closet door, ease it open just in time to see a cat come flying through the skylight. It lands feet-first on the bed and shoots like an arrow down the stairs to where the Scarred Man will no doubt see it.

Noah and I rush out of the closet and toward the skylight, where Rosie still dangles upside down.

“There,” Rosie says. “That ought to be good for some motion.”

Neither of us stop to compliment her. Noah has his hands cupped together and I’m stepping into them. He tosses me upward as if I weigh nothing at all. I grab the ledge and pull myself up just as Noah jumps and catches the ledge on the other side.

We’re both on the roof in seconds. Rosie closes the skylight with a very silent push. Then, for a moment, we lie perfectly still, watching.

I see the Scarred Man come into the bedroom and look from side to side. It’s like he’s starting to wonder if he’s hearing things. Seeing things. It’s his turn to wonder if he’s crazy.

Then he turns. Cradled in his arms is a very scared black cat. I watch the Scarred Man scratch its head gently, soothing it. Calming it.

I’m still holding my breath as he turns again and goes downstairs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“I don’t think we should be here,” Noah says the next afternoon. He has a point, but I don’t say so. “We are in Iran,” he says again, but the three of us ignore him. “Am I the only one who is concerned about this?”

“Yes,” Megan, Rosie, and I say in unison.

Megan sits with her feet in the water, a laptop beside her. Rosie does handstands on the other side of the pool, her bare heels resting against the tile mosaic. But me, I just sit watching the light flicker, shimmering across the ceiling, trying not to think about the smoke.

“Okay,” Megan tells us a moment later. “We’re live.”

She turns the laptop so that Noah and I can see it. Images flash across the screen, rotating between the cameras in the bedroom, living room, and kitchen. I can see the Scarred Man sitting in his solitary chair, staring off into space. He still has the cat, I notice, and it lies on his lap, sleeping. It looks as if he’s finally found a friend.

“That guy creeps me out,” Rosie says.

“Me, too,” Megan says, turning the laptop back around.

“How long until he finds the cameras?” Noah asks.

Megan shrugs. “It depends how paranoid he is. I mean, he could do a sweep every day. Or every week. Or never. In any case, we have them while we have them. That’s the best we can hope for.”

“What about his phone?” I ask.

“What about it?” Rosie says, flipping herself upright.

“Someone called while we were in there last night,” I say. “Who was it?”

Megan shakes her head. “The number was untraceable.”

“Untraceable?” Noah asks. “I thought we were supposed to be able to trace everything.”

The look in Megan’s eyes says it all: We were.

“He’s working for someone,” I say. “Someone’s calling the shots.”

“But is this someone going to get caught by the likes of us?” Noah asks. Nobody answers. Probably because it’s an answer none of us really wants to hear.