No howl of wind or ping of sleet outside. No creaks from the staircase or chime from the clock downstairs in the living room. Nothing from the puppy who slept in his son’s room. Lifting his head from his pillow, he turned his ear toward the doorway and listened intently for any sound coming from the bedroom down the hall. Beside him, his wife lay sleeping peacefully, smelling of the rose-scented lotion she’d lathered on after her shower, the blocks of ice that doubled as her feet burrowed beneath his legs. So what was it? What had yanked him out of a sound sleep at-he glanced at the bedside clock-4:57 in the morning, a full hour before the alarm was due to go off? The feeling had plagued him for the better part of a week. He’d like to think it was due to the greasy plate of ribs he’d eaten with his dad last night at the Patriots game, but he knew better. Daniel Garrett’s eyes flew open to darkness and an unholy sensation of dread slithering in the pit of his stomach.
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