“Goddamn, you are excited, aren’t you?”

I reached up with my left hand and caressed his neck.

He smiled. He let loose of my right hand, and placed his hands on my breasts. It made my skin crawl, but I willed my face into a smile, or as much of one as I could manage through my puffy lips. I reached down and took hold of the shard, moaning to distract him as I pulled it loose. With his arms as they were, I would not be able to do it.

“Please, Devon,” I said, and he had no idea what I was really begging for. I ran my left hand along his chest and up on to his shoulder, then to his neck.

“Get ready, baby,” he said. I was.

He moved his hands down to my waist, and fumbled with the snap as he leaned over me. Now, I thought, now.

With all my strength, I drove the shard into his throat, thrusting it in with my right hand as I pulled his neck down with my left. I stabbed into the place my left thumb had found only moments before, the artery near his windpipe.

The shock on his face was complete. By the time he reached up to grab his neck, he had lost too much blood to remain conscious. He fell forward onto me, the life spilling out of him.

I HAD KILLED A MAN.

27

HIS LIFELESS BODY lay bleeding, pressing me beneath his weight. I managed to move him over enough so that I could breathe. I fought down the urge to be sick. I wanted nothing more than to get out of that room, to run out of the cabin, but I was too weak. I cursed that weakness, then calmed myself as much as I could, and moved my arms and legs beneath him. Gradually, I was able to position myself so that I could roll him off me.

The effort left me trembling. I drew deep breaths, trying not to think about the smell of his blood all over me, trying to concentrate on what must be done next.

Don’t cry, don’t waste any of your energy. Don’t look at him. Get out.

I had no idea how long it would take Raney to return from Las Piernas. I got up from the mattress and hopped over to the door. I was shaking as I opened it, but felt a sweet release of emotion as I moved outside of that room for the first time.

I was in the kitchen. There were three other doorways off it. One led outside. The others led to a small living room that was obviously being used for Devon and Raney’s sleeping quarters, and a tiny bathroom. A quick look did not reveal the location of my coat and shoes. Devon’s feet were larger than mine and I decided a big loose shoe would be more of a handicap than a help. It may have been my way of talking myself out of having to go back into that room, or having to touch him again.

I hopped over to the sink and washed my face with cool water, drinking it right out of the faucet. I was so thirsty, it was heaven. The desire to take a shower – to rinse Devon’s blood off me – was strong, but I was too afraid to take the time. I grabbed a paring knife, the only one I could find in the poorly furnished kitchen, and the set of keys Devon had left on the table. I took his denim jacket off the back of a chair and put it on. I saw a broom in one corner, and turned it upside down to use as a makeshift crutch. I put the knife and keys in the jacket pocket, and made my way outside.

Using the broom was awkward, and being barefoot didn’t help. I worked my way over to the truck. I took the keys out of my pocket and tried each one in the door.

Nothing.

I tried them all again.

Nothing. Devon didn’t have a key to the truck.

I howled in frustration and pounded on the door of the tall vehicle, causing myself to lose my balance and fall hard to the ground. It hurt like a son of a bitch. I started to get up, when it occurred to me that I could at least make it harder for Raney and the Goat to catch up to me. I pulled out the knife, reached up under the truck, and cut the brake line.

I pulled myself up again, literally and figuratively. If I went down the drive to the road, it would be easier going and I would probably encounter other people sooner. The problem was that Raney and the Goat were very likely to be those other people.

I decided to follow the creek down instead. It would be less obvious. People liked to build their cabins along creeks, I told myself. There would be water to drink and sooner or later it would lead me to someone who could help me. I hoped.

When I got to the back of the cabin, I almost changed my mind. The cabin sat about twenty feet above the creek. The slope from the cabin to the creek was steep and covered with leaves and pine needles.

My decision was made for me when I heard the sound of the Blazer coming up the drive. I began my descent. I slipped and slid a couple of times, but made it down to the creek. I heard the doors of the Blazer slam shut. I crawled until I was under a bush that I hoped would hide me from their view, and waited, feeling myself break out into a cold sweat.

Within minutes, I heard an almost animal cry, a screaming wail of denial and grief that I knew was Raney’s. He sobbed Devon’s name again and again in loud cries. I felt it go all the way through me. I had killed Devon to survive, but I didn’t rejoice in it.

Soon I heard his cries turn to rage. “I’m going to kill that fucking bitch! I’ll kill her! I’ll kill her!”

Another voice, the Goat. Lower, calmer. I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

Raney began screaming again. “Fuck you! Fuck you! This is your fault! This is all your fault! Oh God, Devon!”

There was a gunshot.

Had one of them killed the other? No, after a moment I could hear their voices again. Raney’s much quieter now. Then the sound of the truck starting and driving off. Had they left?

I heard someone moving around outside. The hair on my neck stood on end. I could taste my own fear. I listened. Nothing.

I waited a long time. Still nothing. Slowly, I pulled myself down to the creek, rinsing my face, calming myself. I felt for the knife, but realized I must have lost it in the fall down the slope. With small, careful movements, I made my way along the creek bed, trying to stay out of the view of the cabin. I would survive. There were trees up ahead that would hide me better.

“THAT’S FAR ENOUGH,” a voice said in front of me.

28

HE WAS POINTING a gun at me. There was no need for a mask now. I would be dead soon, so why bother? Still, I was surprised. I had guessed wrong.

“Hello, Paul,” I said, as if I were meeting him at a church social instead of after being his prisoner. And now his prisoner again.

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it, and said, “You’re going to very much regret what you’ve done, Irene. Devon was my cousin. I loved him very much.”

“As much as you loved your grandmother?”

I should have known what his response to that would be. Runs in the family. His blow to my face brought me to my knees. He put the gun up against my forehead and told me to stand up.

“Can’t. You’ll have to help me. Your beloved cousin did too much damage to my ankle.”

His help wasn’t gentle. As he reached to grab my shoulders, I saw a set of white ridges on his wrists. It was not a tattoo of a goat that Sammy had seen after all – she had recognized the scars of Paul Fremont’s teenage suicide attempt.

He dragged me between the trees and up a slope that wasn’t as steep as the one I had slid down. I was beyond being able to resist physically. I decided I wouldn’t cry if I could help it. No tears, and no yelling or screaming. No telling him where the journal is. I had my rules in place by the time he let me fall into a heap in the clearing in front of the cabin.

I dreaded the possibility of being put back into the room with Devon’s body, but Paul didn’t take me inside. He stood over me a long while, as if deciding a course of action. I lay unmoving, as much from exhaustion as from fear.