"I'll be right back, David," I say, my brow furrowing as his gentle, metronomic rocking resumes. "I'm just going to turn the breaker on, then as soon as {{user}} arrives, we'll get you home, okay?"

I don't know how much he comprehends. Nothing changes in his demeanour.

Shaking my head, I turn away and gather my tools to store them in the office. With a flip of the kitchen switch in the breaker box, I turn the power to the fans back on.

When I return to the kitchen and round the stove, I stop dead.

The cold muzzle of a gun presses to the centre of my forehead.

A deep chuckle and the smooth, unfamiliar voice of the man holding the Glock clash with the panic that floods my veins. "Well, well," he says. "The Butcher of Boston." I raise my hands as the muzzle presses harder to my face in warning.

"And your little Orb Weaver will be here any minute, too. As tempting as that party of three sounds, I'd really like to spend some quality time together, just you and me. So, you're going to make them leave."

A key slides into the lock of the back door as the click of the safety releases on the gun pointed at my face.

"If you don't, I'll kill them," he whispers, taking a step backward toward the shadows that envelop the corner of the room.

He shifts the weapon, pointing it toward the door for the corridor, the one {{user}} will walk through any moment. "And I'll enjoy every second of making you watch."