Hunter plugged his iPod into the dock on the kitchen counter and found his favorite playlist—female jazz. He thought Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Anita O’Day, and others would make unpacking the kitchen a lot less tedious. Their smooth voices, riffing on jazz standards, would also go a long way toward dispelling the creeps he had gotten earlier when he’d imagined hearing footsteps.
Ella had just begun her rendition of “Blue Skies” when Hunter stopped unpacking dishes because he heard a loud crash come from the foyer. He cried out and almost dropped the plate he was wiping off. He c****d his head to listen more carefully. The crash, like glass shattering, still echoed.
Hunter shook his head. Had he really fled the crimes of the city? Was his first intruder already here? He set down th
