"I don't need your money," Lorraine leaned forward, planting one hand against the doorstyle. "Look, I don't know who you are or what you're doing in there. For all I know you could be slaughtering goats for a Bar Mitswa, but someone just called for help. So, this party's over." Her jaw set as she looked at Greg, "and you creep me out. The cops will have to determine if that's goat's blood or ..." Bile rose into her throat as the other option occurred to her. "Oh, Jesus Christ," she whispered. It didn't sound like a curse. She pushed herself straight and backed up, reaching into her pocket for her cell phone to tap 911.