My husband shoved me down our staircase while our 7-year-old daughter screamed

Vance didn't stay to be arrested like a gentleman.

Before the deputy could draw his weapon, Vance's driver slammed the Lincoln into reverse, fish-tailing across the lawn and spraying wet mud across the front porch. Vance dove into the passenger side door as the vehicle roared down the driveway, rocketing through the open cattle guard and disappearing down the mountain road at breakneck speed.

The deputy sprinted to his cruiser, lights flashing, tires screaming as he gave chase.

"It's over," I breathed, letting out a breath I felt like I had been holding for three long years.

"Not yet," Dad said, his eyes scanning the ridgeline above our house. "Vance ran because he's a coward who hides behind money and lawyers. But Richard has nowhere to run. Richard has nothing left to lose."

As if summoned by the curse of his name, a rifle shot cracked from the dense hemlocks along the high western ridge.

The bullet struck the heavy cedar post beside my ear, sending sharp wooden splinters into my cheek.

Dad tackled me to the flagstones instantly, dragging me behind the thick stone balustrade as a second and third shot thudded into the exterior siding.

"He was never in New York!" I shouted over the crack of gunfire.

"He used Vance as a diversion!" Dad yelled back, unholstering his Kimber .45 and peeking over the stone lip. "He's up on the old logging overlook! Three hundred yards out!"

Through the scope of my Benelli, I swung toward the ridgeline.

There, standing amidst the white pine needles in a filthy, torn trench coat, was Richard.

He looked like a corpse clawed out of a grave. His once-immaculate hair was greasy, wild, and matted with dirt. His cheeks were sunken, his frame skeletal, his eyes wide and burning with the rabid, deranged fire of pure madness. He held a stolen deer rifle with trembling hands, working the bolt furiously.

"Claire!" his voice drifted down the ravine, screeching, cracked, pathetic, yet dripping with venomous malice. "You ruined my life! You took my money! You took my name! You took my daughter!"

He chambered another round and fired blindly into the roof.

"Bring her out!" he shrieked, stumbling down the rocky switchback, his boots slipping on the wet pine needles. "Bring Maya to me or I swear to God I'll burn this mountain until there's nothing left but your bones!"

Dad aimed his pistol, but the distance was too great for a handgun. "Stay down, Claire! I'm circling through the lower timber to flank him!"

"No, Dad," I said, my voice dropping into an eerie, crystal-clear calm.