“Cyrus,” Anthea said slowly, “what is Nik’s demon?”

Facing the door, with her back to the rest of the darkened closet, the foolishness of her decision suddenly came crashing onto her. She’d run from the some-what unknown into the entirely unknown.

Sweden wasn’t famous for violent crimes, but it was famous for violent crime fiction, a fact that Elliott was now examining in a new light.

“You probably saved the little idiot’s life, you know,” Pike said.

“Maybe,” answered Elliott tiredly.

She had almost convinced herself that she’d been being foolish when one of the tree trunks at the edge of the forest separated itself from the others and moved deeper into the woods.

It was a half hour’s walk back to the compound, but neither one cared. They teetered home arm in arm, cheeks warm and hearts full, two bright and happy glows heedless of the dark and lonely woods.

The truth is that she’d had a hundred versions of these conversations before; conspiracy theories, the tragedy of her lonely, childless life, the fabulous amounts of money she must be making, the idea that she could just choose a university to work for now that she had a PhD.

It was surprisingly easy, the watching. People often don’t realize what holes they leave open in their lives that someone else can take advantage of. Keeping to a schedule, always taking the same path, never noting the face of the barista or bus driver or cleaner.

Getting knocked out by a boat should have been the worst diving experience Elliott had ever had, but just three weeks later she was proved wrong.

A modern jungle, claustrophobic, dark, unknowable.

And a predator, stalking carefully between the stacks.