“Someone is out there.”

I’m standing at the kitchen sink, my hands plunged in warm soapy water. Gabe is beside me, supposedly drying dishes but mostly drinking red wine and singing to Edith Piaf. He made coq au vin for dinner using every pot in the house, but if there is one thing to be said for my husband it’s that he knows how to create a mood. He’s dimmed the lights, lit some candles, even trotted out his best French accent. If not for the kids and my older sister, Kat—who is perched at my kitchen counter—it might have been romantic.

“Where?” Gabe asks.

I lift my gloved hand and point through the window. It is a woman, I think, though it’s hard to be sure with the sun setting behind her. In any case, I have a clear view of a figure, twenty-odd meters away, beyond the edge of our property where the lawn gives way to a sandy walking path. Millionaires’ walk, the neighbors call it, for both its million-dollar views and the multimillion-dollar homes that line this part of the cliff. On the other side of the walking path is a sheer drop down to the jagged rocks and the beach thirty meters below. It’s not uncommon for people to stop here and admire the view, particularly at sunset, but when they linger it always gives me pause.

“There.”

I keep my voice quiet, steady. I don’t have the privilege of hysteria given the proximity of our curious four-year-olds.

“Call the police,” he says to me as he heads toward the back door.