Fletcher’s boots hit rock as he stomped through the woods, his yells angrier than before. “You disgusting sow,” he called out. “You think you can fool me.”
I looked around. The giant cliffs rose off to my left, their backs turned on me. A sand road snaked along to my right. More woods spilled out in front of me, but even a sprint could not close the gap before Fletcher reached me. I had no cover except the thick blanket of flowers, their delicate blooms no more than a few inches wide.
I fell to the ground. The blue and gold buds crushed beneath my fingers. I turned on my side, pulling the stalks closer to hide me. When I lifted my head only slightly, I caught a glimpse of Fletcher at the edge of the trees, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead.
He turned, spitting into the dirt. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” He cocked his gun, raising the fine hairs on my arms.
As he made his way through the field, I sunk farther into the ground, wishing it would open up and swallow me whole. He moved slowly, the flowers parting at his knees, the mouth of the gun searching the length of the clearing. With each step his black boots crushed the blooms. When he was a couple yards away he squinted at me. He tilted his head to the side, as if he wasn’t sure if I was a shadow or not.
I froze, not daring to breathe. My fingers dug into the dirt, hard twigs and rocks scattering beneath me. Sweat beaded on my back. The air was trapped in my chest.
After careful consideration he turned and started away from me.
I closed my eyes, thankful he hadn’t seen me, thankful that at the very least Lark and Arden had gotten an extra minute to run away. I relaxed back into the flowers, my lungs releasing my breath, when a thin branch broke under me. Crack!
Fletcher spun around. “Hello, babydoll.”
I was up before he could properly aim the gun. The first shot went past me and I ran, my heart banging in my rib cage. Wind rushed past my ears. Another shot went off, splintering a tree in the distance. I kept running and didn’t look back as the gun fired again. This time there was no shot, only the metallic click of the trigger. When I turned he was knocking the jammed gun on his hand.
I sprinted through the flowers, but he picked up his pace. His footsteps were faster than before, his body releasing short grunts of exertion.
“It’s over,” he said as he paused to fire.
I turned just in time to see him raise the gun, aiming it at my back. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed that it would be quick, that my body wouldn’t buck the way the deer’s had, that I would leave this place without so much pain.
The shot sounded.
I felt my chest, waiting for the blood to gush from the wound, to feel the burning sensation of a bullet burrowing into my flesh. But there was nothing. No hole, no pain.
Nothing.
Behind me, Fletcher froze in place. He dropped his gun by his side. In the middle of his shirt a red stain slowly and determinedly spread outward, working its way to his sides and down his front. He made a gurgling sound and then fell—his mouth open—into the flowers.
I turned, my eyes resting on a figure across the field. An old woman came toward me. She looked nearly seventy, her ghostly white hair in a braid down her back. She petted the rifle in her hand like it was a dear pet.
“You all right?” she asked, studying my face. I kept my hand on my chest, steadied by my still-beating heart.
“Yes,” I managed. “I think so.”
She grabbed Fletcher’s gun off the ground and emptied the ammunition into her hand. Then she kicked him, hard, in the side. He didn’t move. He was already dead.
“Thank you,” I whispered, not knowing if that was the right thing to say.
The old woman smiled, her face beautifully lined. “Marjorie Cross,” she said, holding out her wrinkled hand. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Chapter Twenty-five
“HERE WE ARE,” MARJORIE SAID, PUSHING INTO THE house. “Go on now, settle yourselves down.” She gestured to the living room, where a pink couch sat in front of the fire, yellowed lace covering each arm. A pot simmered in front of it, making the whole room smell of wild berries.
I waved Arden and Lark in behind me. “It’s all right,” I whispered, as Marjorie set the guns on the kitchen table. “We’re safe.”
“Otis!” Marjorie called up a set of stairs. “Otis!” She held her throat as she yelled, each word strained. “Sorry,” she said, looking at us. “No place to buy hearing aids these days. You understand.”
“Tell me why we’re in this crazy lady’s house?” Arden whispered as we sat down on the couch. She pressed at the side of her arm, where a scrape ran from her shoulder to her elbow, its pink insides dotted with ash.