Three knocks.

Deliberate. Heavy.

The room froze. Cynthia clutched Mike’s arm, her fingers trembling slightly against the warmth of his skin. His eyes, still dimmed by fatigue from recovery, narrowed toward the door.

Another knock.

Mike rose slowly, pressing a finger to his lips, and Cynthia nodded, heart pounding in her chest. The note still sat on the coffee table, glaring up at them like a curse: You came back from the dead. Let’s see how long you stay alive.

What if this was it? What if the knock was the next phase?

Mike reached for the drawer beneath the TV stand and pulled out the small silver handgun he’d...