Breach Of Trust. Jodie Bailey

dim light leaking in from the living room, Tate got his first good look at his assailant. He was small, wiry, wearing a black T-shirt and dark jeans, his face covered by the kind of ski mask common in these parts, used to combat the frigid winter chill.

      But it was the eyes. Murderous, dead and locked on Tate. He glanced toward the knife on the floor, but Tate kicked it sideways under the unmade bed and leveled his weapon, too winded to speak.

      There was a brief stare-down before the killer sprang again, landing both of them in the living room. Tate’s shoulder rammed tight beneath the couch as his head slammed against the floor, threatening darkness.

      The killer scrambled up first and bolted for the rear of the house.

      Tate shook off the pain and followed, but the squeal of tires from the driveway told him he was too late.