And she had an axe.

The footsteps were coming toward her.

She slid off to the side behind the door. She wanted to make sure she had room to wield the axe—yet she needed to leave herself enough of an angle so that he wouldn’t be able to see her until it was too late. The axe was so damned heavy. She debated how to swing it exactly. An overhead chop would be a tough angle. If she aimed for his neck, if she tried to slice his goddamn head off, the target area would be pretty small. Her aim would have to be precise.

The footsteps were right on the other side of the door now.

Dana gripped the handle with both hands. She lifted the axe up and held it like a batter waiting for the pitch. That would be the best angle. Swing like a baseball bat. Aim for the center of the chest and hope to bury the blade deep in his heart. If she missed a little right or left or up or down, it would still cause massive damage.

The footsteps stopped. The door began to creak open.

Dana’s body shook from the strain, but she was ready.

Then a phone rang.

For a moment, the door stayed still. Then a hand released it and the door swung back. Dana let the axe collapse back to her side. For a moment, her eyes fell back on the granola bar.

The guy in the house would be busy, at least for the next few seconds. She grabbed a bar and tried her best to quietly unwrap it.

From the other room, she heard the computer guy say, “Hello?”

New plan, she thought. Grab a few granola bars. Go down into the cellar. Hide there with the axe and granola bars. Rest. Draw strength. Find a place where she could see someone coming and maybe take him down with the axe.

Her jumpsuit had pockets. A break, for once. Still chewing, she jammed granola bars into the pockets. They might notice if the entire box was missing from the table, but five or ten bars gone from a box that had originally held sixty wouldn’t draw anyone’s suspicion.

Dana reached for the cellar door when she heard the computer guy tell whoever was on the other end of the line: “Reynaldo said Dana is on the run.”

She froze and listened. She heard typing and then the computer guy spoke again.

“Dana Phelps. I got it up. What do you need?”

She kept her hand on the cellar door. Again she could hear the clacking of his fingers on the keyboard.

“Here it is, Titus. Brandon Phelps. Do you want his mobile or his number at school?”

Dana jammed her hand in her mouth so she wouldn’t scream out loud.

Her hand dropped back to the axe handle. She heard the computer guy give Titus her son’s cell phone.

No, oh God, no, not Brandon . . .

She moved closer to the kitchen door and tried to hear what was being said, tried to figure out what Titus wanted with her son’s phone number.

But wasn’t it obvious?

They were going after her son.

Conscious thought no longer entered the equation. It was now very simple. No hiding. No staying in the cellar. No worrying about her own safety. Only one thing consumed this mother’s thoughts:

Save Brandon.

When the computer guy hung up the phone, Dana ran out of the kitchen and straight toward him.

“Where’s Titus?”

The computer guy jumped back. When he saw Dana coming toward him, he opened his mouth to scream for help. That would be it. If he screamed, if he got the attention of the other guys . . .

Dana moved with a speed and ferocity she didn’t know she possessed. The axe was already in position, swinging toward the seated man at the computer with full force.

She didn’t aim for the chest. He was too low for that.

The blades of the axe slammed straight into the mouth, smashing his teeth, ripping right through the lips and mouth. The spray of blood nearly blinded her. He fell back off the chair, his back slamming hard on the ground. Dana pulled back hard as he did, trying to free the blade. It came out of his face with a wet sucking pop.

Dana didn’t know if he was dead yet or not. But there was no hesitation, no squeamishness. The blood had already reached her face. The rust taste was already on her tongue.

She lifted the blade again, this time straight up in the air. He didn’t move or resist. She brought the axe down hard, cleaving his face in two. The blade sliced through the back of the skull with surprising ease, as though it were a watermelon rind. His tinted glasses split in two, dropping to either side of what had once been his face.

Dana wasted no time. She dropped the axe and started to fumble for the phone.

It was then that she saw the front door was open.

The old dog stood there, watching her, his tail wagging.

Dana put her finger to her lips, tried to smile, tried to convince the old dog that all was okay.

Bo’s tail stopped wagging. And then he began to bark.

 • • •

Reynaldo was carefully going through the woods when he heard the bark.

“Bo!”

He knew all of Bo’s barks. This one was not greeting a friendly face. This was a bark of fear and panic.

With the other two men following him, Reynaldo took out his gun and sprinted back toward the farmhouse.

Chapter 41

Brandon was just settling onto a bar stool in Kat’s apartment when a blocked call came into his mobile phone.

He had already contacted as many of his friends as he could to start hacking into YouAreJustMyType.com. Six of them were with him right now, on Skype, all their faces on the computer screen. Back on campus, his friends had the powerful mainframe and so would be able to handle the hack better. Brandon would work it remotely in conjunction with those on campus.

He picked up the phone. “Hello?”

A voice he didn’t recognize said, “Brandon?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Just listen. You have two minutes. Go downstairs and out the door. Turn right. On the corner of Columbus Avenue, you’ll see a black SUV. Get in it. Your mother is in the backseat.”

“What—?”

“If you’re not here in exactly two minutes, she dies.”

“Wait, who is this—?”

“One minute fifty-five seconds.”

Click.

Brandon jumped off this stool and sprinted to the door. He threw it open and pressed for the elevator. It was on the ground floor. He was six floors up.

Better to take the stairs.

He did, more tumbling down them than running. His phone was still in his hand. He crossed the lobby and burst through the door. He leapt down the stoop to street level and veered right on 67th Street, nearly knocking over a man in a business suit.

He didn’t let up. He dashed down the street, looking at the cars ahead of him. There, at the corner per the phone call, was the black SUV.

He was getting closer, when his cell phone rang again. Still in stride, he checked the caller ID.

A blocked number again.

He was near the SUV now. The back door opened. He put the phone to his ear and heard a barking dog. “Hello?”

“Brandon, listen to me.”

His heart stopped. “Mom? I’m almost at the car.”

“No!”

Brandon heard a man shouting in the background. “What was that? Mom?”

“Don’t get in the car!”

“I don’t un—”

“Run, Brandon! Just run!”

Brandon stopped, tried to back up, but two hands reached out of the back of the car and grabbed his shirt. His cell phone dropped as a man tried to drag him into the SUV.

 • • •

Kat welcomed the walk across the park, a chance to clear her head and think, but the familiar sites didn’t offer any of their usual solace. She thought about the Ramble a few blocks north, how her father had worked the area, what must have been going through his mind.

When she looked back on it, when she looked back at her father’s behavior, his drinking, his rage, his disappearances, it all made sad, pathetic sense. You hide so much. You hide your heart. You hide your true self. The facade becomes not just the cruel reality.