I could hear them inside, asking her how she got there and who had done it to her. That’s what their words said, but I could hear other questions in the sound of their cautious footsteps. Who else is in here? Whose stuff is this? And the bigger, quieter question: had anybody else heard her screaming and come looking for easy pickings? This kid waiting out front in their old Honda wouldn’t hear me over mom’s screaming. By the time she stopped, I’d be gone, riding in style.