Turning from the photographs, Channing locked the door, poured a glass of vodka from a bottle in the freezer, and made her way to the bathroom at the end of the hall. She locked that door, too, and wondered if she’d ever relax behind a door that wasn’t bolted. Even here and safe, she felt as if her clothes were too thin and certain muscles had forgotten how to unclench. The vodka helped, so she took a sip, started the bath, and then lifted the glass again. She made the water very hot and waited for steam to rise before undressing in a careful, controlled manner. It wasn’t that she hurt—the stitches, the bite marks—but that she feared her eyes might betray her, that they’d find the mirror by mistake and linger on the bruises and dark thread and the tight, pink crescents his teeth had left. She wasn’t ready for that.
Sinking into the bath, though, she thought of what Elizabeth stood for, of her patience and strength and will. Maybe it was the vodka, or something more. Whatever the case, Channing climbed from the tub before the water cooled. She kept her eyes up this time and confronted the mirror with a steadiness she thought she’d lost. She started with wet hair and the water on her skin, then looked at the bruises and marks and the ribs that showed too plainly. But it wasn’t enough to simply look. She needed to see, and that’s what she tried to do, to see not just the person she’d been or was, but the woman she wished to be.
That woman looked a lot like Liz.
It was a good thought that didn’t last. Someone was banging on the door.
“Jesus—”
Channing jumped so hard and fast she slammed her hand against the sink. It wasn’t a knock at the door, but a hard, brutal pounding.
“Shit, shit—”
She shoved a leg into her jeans, fabric sticking on wet skin, the other leg going in just as hard. The pounding got louder and more intense. Front door, she thought, over and over, and hard enough to shake the house. Channing pulled on the sweatshirt, thinking telephone, Liz, run. It was panic, pure instinct. She could barely breathe, and it took all her strength to open the bathroom door. The hall was dim, no movement. The pounding got even louder.
Creeping into the living room, she risked a glance through the window. Cops were in the yard—blue lights and guns and hard-faced men wearing Windbreakers that said SBI.
“This is the state police!” A loud voice at the door. “We have an arrest warrant for Elizabeth Black! Open up!”
Channing twitched away from the window, but not before someone saw her.
“Movement! Left side!”
Guns came up, squared on the widow.
“State police! Final warning!”
Channing ducked sideways, saw men on the porch. They wore helmets and body armor and black gloves. One of them had a sledgehammer.
“Break it.”
An older man pointed at the lock, and Channing screamed when the hammer hit. The sound was like a bomb, but the door held.
“Again!”
This time the frame buckled, and she saw bright metal. Six men stood behind the hammer, soldiers in a row with fingers tight above the triggers. The old man nodded, and the hammer struck a third time, the door breaking from its frame.
“Move! Move! Move!”
Channing felt the rush, but was already moving. She snatched up the phone and sprinted left.
“Movement! Back hall!”
Someone else yelled “Freeze!” but she didn’t. She hit the bathroom in a skid; slammed the door and locked it. They’d clear the house before they broke the door, but it was a small house, and she was already dialing.
One ring.
Two.
She sensed men, tight-packed in the narrow hall. It was the stillness, the silence.
Please, please …
The phone rang a third time, and Channing heard the click. She opened her mouth, but the door exploded, and the world was guns and men and screaming.
*
As hard as Elizabeth drove the car before, she pushed it to breaking now, turning off the crumbled road and onto a state highway, cars slashing past as the needle touched 105. The wind made so much noise she could barely think. But what could she think about anyway?
The girl wasn’t answering.
Screams. A dead phone. But, she’d heard other things, too. Hard voices and shouting and breaking wood.
Elizabeth dialed the house, but the line was off the hook. She tried the girl’s phone again, but that failed, too.
“Damn it!”
Three tries. Three fails.
Desperate, she called Beckett. “Charlie!”
“Liz, where the hell are you? What’s that noise?”
She could barely hear above the wind. “Charlie, what’s happening?”
“Thank God. Listen. Don’t go to your house!” He was yelling to be heard. “Don’t go home!”
“What? Why?”
“Hamilton and Marsh…” She lost a sentence or two, then he was back. “Word just hit the street. They have an indictment, Liz. Double homicide. We just found out.”
“What about Channing?”
“Liz…” Static. “Don’t…”
“What?”
“State police locked us out—”
“Charlie! Wait!”
“Don’t go to your fucking house!”
Elizabeth hung up in numb disbelief. It wasn’t the warrant or that she’d be arrested. State cops were at her house, and so was the girl who’d saved her life, Channing, who was eighteen and hollowed out and liable to confess anything. Already, five minutes had passed.
“Too much time.”
She pushed the old car until the needle touched 110, then 115. She watched for slow movers and cops; squeezed the wheel hard and said her first real prayer in a dozen years.
Please, God …
*
But, it was over by the time she got there. She saw it from a block out: no lights at the house, no cars or cops or movement. She came hard anyway, locking up the brakes and rocking into the drive.