Chapter 7“I don’t want to go to bed early,” Dylan mumbled as we ambled along the pathway to his dark-drawn house.
Christie ran ahead of us, padded up the porch stairs, and climbed on top of the Adirondack chair, complaining about her tired feet.
“You’re going to get out of that costume and into your pajamas,” I said.
“But my candy bag isn’t full,” Dylan went on.
“You’ve got enough candy,” I said. “Let’s go. Inside.”
As Christie jumped off the chair, a car drove by the house, rain swishing beneath the tires. It slowed and stopped when it reached the Lindermans’ front yard.
I turned, still holding onto Dylan’s damp hand.
The cold blade of an imaginary knife sliced across my neck. My mouth went slack; I held my breath.
It was too dark to see the make and model of the vehicle, even wit
