The kitchen was too bright, too sterile, too safe. That was the terrifying part. It felt like a stage set for a life that was now collapsing because of a single, seven-digit number glowing on my phone screen.

I stood over the large kitchen island, gripping my cell so tightly my knuckles were white. The image, the high, angled photo of Alexander’s Hamptons gate, seared behind my eyes. You have a pretty house, and really serious security. But they can’t stop me from seeing you.

He’s here. ...