“How’s he doing?”

“How do you think? Scared. Confused. He thinks he’s dead and this is hell.”

“Will he run?”

“Probably.”

At the edge of the forest, Ethan stopped.

He said, “The fence is about a mile straight ahead.”

“What are they like?” she asked. “The abbies.”

“Like all the bad things you have nightmares about when you’re a kid. They’re the monsters in the closet, under the bed. There are millions of them.”

“And you’re telling me we have a fence between us and them?”

“It’s a big fence. Has electricity going through it.”

“Oh, well, in that case.”

“And there’s a few snipers up on the peaks.”

“While Pilcher and his people live in safety in the mountain.”

Theresa walked a few steps down the road, the snow collecting on her shoulders, on her hoodie.

“Tell me something. What’s the point of all those pretty little houses with white picket fences?”

“I think he’s trying to preserve our way of life.”

“For who? Us or him? Maybe someone should tell him our way of life is over.”

“I’ve tried.”

“We should all be in that mountain, figuring something out. I’m not living the rest of my life in some psycho’s model train town.”

“Well, the man in charge doesn’t share your view. Look, we aren’t going to fix this tonight.”

“I know.”

“But we will fix it.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

“Even if it means losing everything?”

“Even if it means we lose our lives.” Ethan stepped forward, opened his arms, pulled her in close. “I’m asking you to trust me. You have to go on like nothing has changed.”

“That’s going to make my psychiatrist appointments interesting.”

“What appointments?”

“Once a month, I go to an appointment, talk to a shrink. I think everyone does. It’s the only time we’re allowed to open up to another human being. We get to share our fears, our thoughts, our secrets.”

“You can talk about anything?”

“Yes. I thought you knew about these meetings.”

Ethan felt his hackles rising.

He pushed the rage back down—it wouldn’t help him now.

“Who do you see?” he asked. “A man? A woman?”

“A woman. She’s very pretty.”

“What’s her name?”

“Pam.”

He closed his eyes, drew in a deep, cold shot of piney air.

“Do you know her?” Theresa asked.

“Yes.”

“And she’s one of Pilcher’s?”

“She’s pretty much his second in command. You can’t tell her anything about tonight. Or your chip. You understand? Nothing. Our family would be killed.”

“Okay.”

“Has she ever inspected the back of your leg?”

“No.”

“Has anyone?”

“No.”

He checked his watch—2:45 a.m. Nearly time.

He said, “Look, I’ve got someplace to be. I’ll walk you home.”

“Seeing Kate again?” she asked.

“And her group. Pilcher’s dying to know what they’re up to.”

“Let me come.”

“I can’t. She’s expecting just me. If suddenly you show up too, things could get—”

“Awkward?”

“It could spook her. Besides, she and her people might have killed someone.”

“Who?”

“Pilcher’s daughter. She was a spy. Point is, I don’t know if they’re dangerous or not.”

“Please be careful.”

Ethan took his wife’s hand and they turned back toward home.

The lights of Wayward Pines looked hazy through the snow.

He said, “Always, my love.”

17

Standing in the forest among the pines, she thought there was nothing prettier than snowflakes falling through night vision.

Ten years ago, there’d been a forest fire three miles from the center of town. She’d stood in the burning trees watching embers rain down from the sky. This reminded her of that day, except the snow glowed green. Burning green. Each flake leaving a luminescent trail in its wake. And the floor of the forest and the road and the snow-covered roofs of the houses in town—they all glowed like LED screens.

The snow that had collected on Ethan’s and Theresa’s shoulders glowed too.

As if they’d been sprinkled with magic dust.

Pam didn’t even have to hide behind a tree.

As far as she could tell, Ethan hadn’t brought a flashlight, and it was so dark out here in the woods, beyond the reach of streetlamps and porch lights, that she had no fear of discovery. She needed only to stand in total silence, fifteen feet away, and listen.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Technically, she’d been sent to observe the new arrival, Wayne Johnson. It was his second night in Wayward Pines, and night two was historically a night for runners. But she was starting to think that Wayne might fall in line faster than the projections. That he wouldn’t pose any significant problems. He’d been an encyclopedia salesman after all. Something about the nature of his profession, at least to her, suggested conformity.

So instead, she’d slipped into the empty house across from Ethan’s Victorian and dug in behind the curtains in the living room with a straight-on view of his front door.

Pilcher would be pissed that she’d abandoned her mission. There’d be a little hell to pay on the front side of this decision, but on the back—when her boss had finally calmed down and heard her out—he’d be thrilled with the results of her choice.

She’d done it before with Kate Ballinger. Staked out the woman’s house at night for two weeks before she finally caught her leaving. But tracking her and her husband had been another story. Pam had lost her soon after when Kate had literally disappeared underground. She’d tried to convince Pilcher to let her devote some real resources, but he’d shot her down since Alyssa was already on the case.

How’d that fucking work out for you?

Her opinion, the old man put up with way too much shit from his sheriff.

She didn’t get it. Didn’t understand what it was exactly that Pilcher saw in Burke. Yes, Ethan could handle himself. Yes, he had the skill set to run the town, but Jesus, no one was worth the trouble he’d put them through.

If it was her call—and one day it would be—she’d have dealt with Ethan and his family two weeks ago.

Chained Ben and Theresa to the pole beyond the fence.

Let the abbies come for them.

Sometimes, she fell asleep imagining the screams of Ethan’s son, picturing Ethan’s face while he watched his boy, and then his wife, eviscerated and eaten before his eyes. She wouldn’t feed Ethan to the abbies, though. She’d put him in lockup for a month, maybe two. Hell, maybe a year. However long it took. Make him watch and rewatch the abbies devouring his family. Keep the footage rolling on an endless loop in his cell. The screams turned up. And only when the man was broken in every way imaginable, when his body had wasted itself into nothing but a shell for a shattered mind, then, only then, she’d release him back into town. Give him a nice little job—maybe a waiter, maybe a secretary—something subservient, boring, soul crushing.

Of course, she’d check in on him each week.

Hopefully, if she’d done it right, there would be just enough of his mind left to remember who she was and all that she had taken from him.

And he would live out the rest of his days as a pathetic scab of a human being.

That was how you dealt with men like Ethan Burke. With men who tried to run. You annihilated them. You made them a horrifying example for everyone to see.

You sure as fuck didn’t make them sheriff.

She smiled.

She had caught him.

Finally.

This fantasy that she’d been dreaming about as she lay in her room inside the mountain struck her, for the first time, as achievable.

She wasn’t exactly sure of what to do next, of how to use this ammunition to realize that dark, beautiful fantasy, but she would think of something.