“Something wrong here, a cold whisper of evil.  The house was a modernist relic, glass and stone and redwood, sixty years old and gone creaky; not all haunted house were Victorian.  Sometimes at night… she’d feel a sudden coolness, as though somebody, or some thing, had just slipped by.  This was different.  She couldn’t pin it down, but it was palpable.  She thought about stepping back into the garage.  ‘Who’s there?’ she called.  She got nothing back but an echo.”

(Opening lines of Phantom Prey.  John Sandford’s Wicked Prey published May 12)

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