Set the Night on Fire by Libby Fischer Hellmann

squinting into the sun but smiling. It had been taken in the summer, and there must have been a breeze blowing, because wisps of blond hair framed her face. She was wearing a white peasant blouse, and there were flowers in her hair. Real ones, it looked like. Behind her was a stand of trees, and if you just glanced at the picture, you’d think she was one of those forest nymphs from Grimm’s fairy tales.
    Lila remembered asking Gramum about her. Her name was Alice Monroe, Gramum would say, her lips tightening, and she came from someplace in Indiana. Gramum never met her, she would add. Her grandmother wasn’t trying to be cruel, but Lila understood that any mention of her mother evoked memories—few of them good. Her father’s marriage was something he and Gramum refused to revisit. It wasn’t a mistake, mind you, Gramum would say over and over. She and Danny were blessings, and if it hadn’t been for their mother, they wouldn’t be here today.
    Indeed, her mother had died giving birth to them. Her delicate constitution just couldn’t bear children, Gramum said, especially twins. Gramum would tell her how they’d named her Lila, from the Aramaic word for “night,” because her father had brought them both home in the dead of night. Then she’d change the subject and remind Lila not to bother her father with questions—he was just too busy.
    She’d defied Gramum only once, when she was a teenager full of insatiable curiosity. She’d waited until Gramum was in bed, then crept down to her father’s study to ask about her mother. He didn’t know where her mother’s family was, he said; she hadn’t been on good terms with them. As far as he knew, they never knew she was pregnant. Yes, it was a shame, he added, but he wouldn’t have the slightest idea where to find the Monroe family. With such a common name, they could be just about anywhere. When Lila asked him why he never married again, he said he was just too busy.
    Exactly what Gramum said.
    She’d even asked her aunt about her mother, but Val quickly changed the subject back to herself. Val—she demanded that Lila call her Val, not Valerie, or God forbid, Aunt Valerie—had been married three times but was childless and currently single. She wasn’t evil, and, on occasion, she was fun to be with, but she wasn’t what Lila would call dependable. She was always dashing off someplace, traveling all over the world.
    Now Lila wandered into the kitchen. She opened the fridge, took out a bottle of wine, and poured a glass. The Pinot Grigio was tart but with an underlying sweetness. Danny did have good taste in wine. Clothes and women, too. She was just about to take another sip when she heard a scratching noise outside the kitchen door.
    She froze, the wine glass halfway to her mouth. Danny’s apartment was on the second floor, but the back door opened to a porch with stairs down to the street. The scratching stopped. Lila clutched the glass. Her nerves were shot. Was she imagining this, too?
    A moment later it started up again. This time it sounded as if someone was lightly scraping against something metal. Not her imagination. Her eyes slid to the phone on the kitchen wall. It would take the police at least ten minutes to respond, but she needed help now.
    She heard snuffling and what sounded like labored breathing. Slowly she moved to the kitchen counter, set down the glass, and opened a drawer that housed Danny’s knives. Three lay inside. One was a carving knife with a long curving blade. Another, a short paring knife. The third was a sharp, sturdy-looking knife with a six-inch blade. The long knife would be awkward and unwieldy. The short one, too little. She picked up the sturdy one. The handle fit easily in her palm. Like Goldilocks, it was just right.
    She edged her way to the door. She had surprise on her side. Would that be enough? What if there was more than one person? She thought again about the scratching. She had no idea what was making it.