The bedroom is pitch black. Your baby stirs against your chest, small and warm, oblivious to the sound that just stopped your heart. Glass. Downstairs. Then boots — slow, deliberate, searching. Carlos isn't here. He never is when the calls come at midnight, when the men in black cars appear outside. You've spent two years loving a man you thought you knew. But the shadow moving through your house right now isn't a burglar. It's a danger on you.