This is what I remember: the warm night air, darkness as soft and inviting as a cashmere shawl, a gentle breeze brushing flirtatiously across the tops of the sweet-smelling shrubs in which I'm hiding, their coral flowers now folded in on themselves, closed to the dark. I'm vaguely aware of their faint aroma as I peer through my binoculars into Sara McAllister's third-floor window, my knees aching from squatting so long in the same position, my toes cramping. It's closing in on midnight, I've been here for hours, and irritability is curling around my consciousness like a hungry boa constrictor. I'm thinking that if I don't see something--anything--soon, I'm going to call it a night. That's when I hear it--the snap of a twig, perhaps, although I'm not certain, that signals someone behind me. I turn to look, but it's already too late. A gloved hand quickly covers my mouth, blocking my screams. I taste leather--old, stale, earthy. And then, those hands, seemingly everywhere, on my shoulders, in my hair, snapping the binoculars from my fingers, as fists slam into my stomach and against the side of my head, causing the world around me to blur and the ground to give way beneath my feet. A pillowcase is pulled roughly over my face. I can't breathe, and I panic. Keep your wits about you, I tell myself in an effort to regain my equilibrium and hold my growing terror at bay. Keep track of everything that's happening. Except that everything is happening too fast. Even before the pillowcase is pulled into place, the white cotton overwhelming the blackness of the night, I see nothing but a vague shape. A man, certainly, but whether he is young or old, fat or thin, black or brown or white, I have no idea. Has the man I've been waiting for been waiting for me? Did he spot me hiding in the bushes and simply bide his time? Excerpted from Someone Is Watching by Joy Fielding All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.