Naomi woke up in her Manhattan apartment with her steak knife pressed against her throat. A hand stifled her scream and pinpricks of light aggravated her adjusting vision.
"Shh," a husky voice crooned as she wriggled away from the jagged blade. "Quiet now," he said. "We're just getting our things. Then we'll be gone."
Three other ski-masked figures pried open Naomi's squeaky floorboards with a crowbar and pulled out bag after bag.
"We thank you for your cooperation, Miss," the one wielding her knife said. "We hope you enjoy your new place. Rest assured: you will never be seeing us again."
In the morning Naomi took the subway to the nearest police station. At the front steps of the precinct, her way was blocked.
"That's not a good idea, Miss," the hushed voice from the night before urged.
Eyes wide, mouth agape, heart racing, Naomi slowly backed away, turned, and ran from the man in blue.
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