Bree Daniels froze, fork halfway to her mouth, at the sound of the knock at her apartment door. She forced herself to put the fork down slowly and remain calm.
A knock on the door wasn’t a cause for panic for most people. But from the time Bree was twelve, she’d been taught that danger of the most deadly kind could wait on the other side of any door.
She took a deep breath and let it out.
It wasn’t that no one ever knocked on her door. She regularly ordered things that had to be delivered. As a matter of fact, most of her shopping was done online. Everything from clothing to groceries. Buying what she needed on the internet meant less interaction with people and no need to leave her downtown Kansas City apartment.
But Bree always knew exactly—usually to the hour—when the items would arrive. When a knock would come on her door.
This was not one of those times.
She waited, hoping it was just some kid or lost person who would go away, tensing when a second knock came. She stood, moving toward the emergency bug-out bag she kept packed in the coat closet. It contained everything she needed for a quick getaway: clothing, a wad of cash, a few items that could be used to change her appearance and a fake ID she’d never used.
She hadn’t needed the bag since arriving here three years ago on her twenty-first birthday. She didn’t want to use it now unless she absolutely had to. Despite the wisdom of it, she loved this little apartment. It had become home. She didn’t want to leave.
A woman’s voice came from the other side of the door.
“Bethany?”
Now Bree ran for the closet. It was definitely time for the bug-out bag.
Nobody knew her by the name Bethany. At least, no one who wanted her alive.
Another soft knock. Another whisper at the door. “Please, Bethany. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
Bree didn’t stop, just grabbed the bag and ran toward the window in the living room. The fire escape outside her second-floor apartment was the reason she had chosen this unit in the first place.
Always have multiple exits. Always have a plan.
And she did. To get the hell out. She was climbing through the window when she heard the words from the door.
“Crisscross, applesauce.”
Bree froze. No, it couldn’t be. She hadn’t heard those words, the code she’d shared with her cousin when they were younger, in more than a decade.
Melissa had been the only
