Carry Me Home by Rosalind James Page A

gloved hand in the other pocket, and he pulled out the black ski mask, tugged it over his head, aligned the eye and mouth holes. Now he looked like a bona fide nightmare.
    He smiled inside the woolen mask. Happy Halloween, Amy.
    He didn’t need anything else. He never did. Fear froze them for those first critical seconds, and by the time they woke up enough to know what was happening, it was already much too late. A few threats, a good hard slap or two if they needed it, a hand on their throat, and by the time he started, their minds had gotten ahead of them and they were just praying to survive. That was all it took.
    His heart was beating harder, but it wasn’t unpleasant, not at all. He was on edge, but it was a good edge, knowing he was at the top of his game, that he was in charge. He never felt better than he did right before. Not even afterward. He could get off anytime. But he couldn’t get this. This was special. This was his.
    Mask, gloves, zip ties, penlight. He was ready. He wondered again if he should change it up, start blindfolding them. Use a pillowcase, maybe. Shove it over her head, and he wouldn’t have to worry one bit about her identifying him.
    But if he did that, he couldn’t see their eyes, and their eyes were his favorite part. Seeing the fear in them, the desperation. The pain. And then there was the bargaining, the reasoning. When they tried using their freshman Sexual Assault Awareness training on him—Christ, that made him laugh.
    So no blindfold. Because it would take away half the fun, and the fun was the point. That and the danger. The danger . . . that was the extra spice in the stew.
    But that was enough time savoring the pleasures to come. Time to make his move. He looked around once more, stayed low, and crept across the yard. Then he was standing on the concrete slab, lit by the dim illumination of the so-called security lights, the most dangerous part of his mission.
    The sliding door was aluminum, but he knew that already, because he didn’t take chances. He’d checked it out weeks ago, when he’d picked his Amy. He tried it, just to make sure. Locked.
    Well, that would have been too easy. No fun at all. Anyway, locking one of these things was like taking your shoes off for the airport security scanners. Didn’t keep anything safer at all, just made stupid people feel like it did.
    He put one hand up to the corner of the aluminum frame, the other on the handle. A couple hard, sharp jerks in exactly the right place, and he felt the snap. He smiled. Piece of crap. Easy as pie. He slid it open, left it that way, ready for a quick exit, and stepped inside. Unzipped his sweatshirt pocket, touched the ridged edge of a zip tie. Party time.
    “Honey,” he breathed. “I’m home.”

MONKEY PAWS
    Amy sat up in bed, her heart knocking against her chest. What was that? Was that something?
    She’d sat up in the dark with her heart beating exactly like this, over and over and over again, every night for more than a week. But this was the first night she’d been alone.
    It’s all right , her brain said. Just the wind. But her body was telling her something else. That it was the very furthest thing from all right. Every muscle had tensed. Everything in her was screaming danger .
    Her eyes were fixed on the doorway. It was pitch-dark in here, the shades drawn, but she could sense something. Not quite hear it, just a feeling. And then she heard the hint of a rasp that she somehow knew was the doorknob turning, saw a sliver of a break in the shadows, a wedge of gray that grew slowly wider. The door was opening.
    Her right hand, the one that had been resting on the switch, hit it hard, and her bedside light went on.
    She saw him standing frozen, his hand still on the doorknob. And then she had leaped to her feet, on the side of the bed away from him, even as he rushed around the end of the bed, straight for her.
    She didn’t try to run, didn’t scramble across the bed. She never even