When he entered the house through its side entrance he was amazed at how quiet everything was. It was disconcerting. Mary wasn't there, cooking dinner...or watching TV. She'd left him, he remembered. Shit.But also, the loud rock music that usually came from his daughter's room upstairs wasn't to be heard, either. Strange.He began to grow nervous again. Maybe she'd left. Maybe his little girl had hiked up to the police station, or was at a neighbor's house. Or maybe, he thought optimistically, she. He ran upstairs. He put on hisblack jeans, black sweatshirt, and his black winter"burglar" hat. He laced up his boots, and just foreffect he slid the sheath for his 4" blade onto hisbelt. He took the knife out and looked at in the lightof his desk lamp. He kept good care of the knife as ithad been his fathers. He polished it and sharpened itregularly. He saw his own face mirrored in the blade.There was a path leading out behind his house that ranparallel to the street. He could take it most of. More

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