Contents

Praise for The Girls I’ve Been

Also by Tess Sharpe

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One: The Girl in the Cabin

Chapter 1

Chapter 2: Nora

Chapter 3: Iris

Chapter 4: Iris’s Mortal Enemies

Part Two: The Girl in a Quandary

Chapter 5: Nora

Chapter 6: Nora

Chapter 7: The Amanda Edicts

Chapter 8: Nora

Chapter 9: Nora

Chapter 10: Nora

Part Three: The Girl in the Woods

Chapter 11: Nora

Chapter 12: Nora

Chapter 13: Nora

Chapter 14: Nora

Chapter 15: Nora

Chapter 16: Nora

Chapter 17: Nora

Chapter 18: Nora

Part Four: The Girl on the Run

Chapter 19: The Honeymoon Period

Chapter 20: Nora

Chapter 21: Nora

Chapter 22: Iris

Chapter 23: Wes (and Turbo)

Chapter 24: Nora

Chapter 25: The Honeymoon Period

Chapter 26: Nora

Chapter 27: Iris

Chapter 28: Iris’s Mortal Enemies

Chapter 29: Iris

Chapter 30: Iris

Part Five: The Girl Abby Raised

Chapter 31: Nora

Chapter 32: The Honeymoon Period

Chapter 33: Nora

Chapter 34: The Honeymoon Period

Chapter 35: Nora

Part Six: The Girl in Question

Chapter 36: Nora

Chapter 37: Iris

Chapter 38: Nora

Chapter 39: Nora

Chapter 40: Nora

Chapter 41: Nora

Chapter 42: Nora

Chapter 43: Nora

Chapter 44: Iris’s Mortal Enemies

Chapter 45: Nora

Chapter 46: Nora

Part Seven: The Girl Lee Raised

Chapter 47: Wes (and Turbo)

Chapter 48: Iris

Chapter 49: Wes (and Turbo)

Chapter 50: Nora

Chapter 51: Nora

Chapter 52: Iris (and Turbo)

Chapter 53: Iris’s Mortal Enemies

Chapter 54: Iris

Chapter 55: Iris

Chapter 56: Iris

Chapter 57: Iris

Chapter 58: Wes

Chapter 59: Nora

Part Eight: The Girl He Made

Chapter 60: Iris

Chapter 61: Nora

Chapter 62: Iris

Chapter 63: Iris

Chapter 64: Nora

Chapter 65: Iris

Chapter 66: Nora

Chapter 67: Nora

Chapter 68: Nora

Chapter 69: Nora

Chapter 70: Iris (and Turbo)

Chapter 71: Nora

Part Nine: The Good Girl

Chapter 72: Nora

Chapter 73: Iris

Chapter 74: Nora

Chapter 75: Nora

Chapter 76: Nora

Chapter 77: Nora

Chapter 78: Iris’s Mortal Enemies

Chapter 79: Iris (and Turbo)

Chapter 80: Nora

Chapter 81: Nora

Part Ten: The Girl in Plan 13

Chapter 82: Nora

Chapter 83: Nora

Chapter 84: Amanda

Chapter 85: Nora

Chapter 86: Nora

Chapter 87: Iris’s Mortal Enemy

Acknowledgments

PRAISE FOR THE GIRLS I’VE BEEN

“A captivating, explosive, and satisfyingly queer thriller”

Kirkus

“This brilliant, thrilling, twisty book held me hostage until the very last page.”

Holly Jackson

“Grifters! Secret identities! Death-defying escapes! The Girls I’ve Been is a powerful gut-punch of a book that will leave you reeling long after its final pages. I couldn’t put it down!”

Chelsea Pitcher

“Slick, stylish and full of suspense”

Sophie McKenzie

“Oh my god, I could hardly breathe until I finished. The tension! Absolutely loved it.”

Emily Barr

“Fiercely captivating and impressively characterized, this tightly plotted thriller is engrossing from start to finish.”

Booklist

“[A] romance, a tragedy and a story about reclaiming agency and power. It is a triumph.”

BookPage

Also by Tess Sharpe

Far From You

The Girls I’ve Been

Six Times We Almost Kissed (And One Time We Did)

HODDER CHILDREN’S BOOKS

First published in Great Britain in 2024 by Hodder & Stoughton

Text copyright © Tess Sharpe, 2024

Cover illustrations copyright © Hodder & Stoughton Limited, 2024

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

eBook ISBN 978 1 444 96886 6

Hodder Children’s Books

An imprint of Hachette Children’s Group

Part of Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK Company

www.hachette.co.uk

www.hachettechildrens.co.uk

Jim, this one is for you.

Your faith in me and my work has changed my life many times, but in 2023 you helped me write my way onto the path to WGA insurance and getting my health back.

I could fill a book with my gratitude, but for brevity’s sake I’ll just say: thank you. You saved me.

You are the best egg.

Day Seven, The Cabin

I’m tied to the chair. It is not an ideal defensive position. My fingers keep going numb. That won’t do. I shift, trying to get the blood flowing.

The cabin’s not exactly ramshackle, but it’s kind of musty and gross. There’s a dead mouse in the corner, and there’s no AC or open windows, so I’ve been sweating through my clothes since her mercenary put me in here.

She wants me to sweat mentally the most. But inflicting physical distress is a tried-and-true torture method. Nothing’s beneath her. That much I believe.

My eyes skitter to the bandanna on the coffee table. Some of the embroidered bits are stained with blood. I breathe deep, reminding myself why I’m here.

Because you’re impulsive. You didn’t even make a plan. You just snapped!

But that doesn’t mean I can’t make a plan now.

I move, trying to get more slack in the rope. I can feel the spindle on the chair rattle when I strain against it. I push harder and it gives more. It’s a rickety thing, the chair.

I can get out of this. All I have to do is focus.

Deep breaths. Break it down into steps, like I’ve been taught.

Step One: Get out of the chair.

The door scrapes. I stiffen. Click, click, click. Heels, not boots. I noticed when she had the mercenary bring me in. She’s clearly willing to break an ankle out here. What a fool.

The agent settles across from me in the much more solid-looking armchair.

She really should’ve had her mercenary tie me to that one.

Her cheek is still red where I slapped her. There’s a folder in her lap. Bringing paperwork eighty miles into the forest is absolutely a thing she’d do, so I’m not surprised. More like disgusted.

“I’m glad to see you’re o—”

She glances up and it seems to hit her then, because she didn’t follow the oh with a -kay as she takes me in. The days of dirt and sweat. The dried blood—some of it mine, some of it not. The I’m going to kill you expression.

Because I might if she doesn’t give me what I want. Why else do you think I let her catch me?

Her is Agent Marjorie North, FBI. I could make a federal-but-incompetent joke here, but that’s kind of lazy, even given everything that’s happened.

“I’ll try to make this quick,” North says finally. “Then we can get you out of here and seen to.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The look she shoots me is all annoyed, I know better authority. “You need medical attention.”

Just a little more pressure. I can feel the chair spindle catch against the edge of the hole it’s set in.

My eyes slide back to her bandanna.

Step Two: Ask the question.

“Where is she, Agent North?”

North at least has the grace to not act puzzled over whom I’m talking about.

“You’re here to answer my questions, not the other way around.”

“That’s not how this is going to go.”

She arches an eyebrow. Chilly as hell. “You’re not a minor anymore. You know what that means.”

“Gonna cart me off to some FBI black-site? Or is it only the CIA who has those?”

I press my hands against the chair again. I can feel the spindle catch against the edge and then: one more push and pop.

I’m free! Kind of. My hands are still tied behind me, but I’m not bound to the chair anymore.

Step Three: Get out of the ropes.

I cross my legs, wincing like I’m in pain—which isn’t hard, because yes, I really am—and hide the shift of my blistered hands as I rub my wrists against the ropes. They’re not as tight as they should be now I’m free of the chair. A few twists … and yes. The slack’s enough. It’s enough. I’ll be able to wrench myself out of them when the time’s right.

It’s almost right. I need her to get a bit closer.

“Hey,” she says, as I lean forward and groan. “Stop that.”

“I hurt myself. I can’t really stop anything,” I grit back.

“You kids,” she mutters.

“Weren’t you just reminding me I wasn’t a minor anymore?” I pop my right wrist free of the ropes. I need North to get up and step forward. That’s all. But it suddenly seems like an enormous task.

Should I annoy her into getting up? Anger her? I don’t know. I’m not quick enough to know which button to push.

“If any of you valued your lives, you would’ve come to us.”

“Because last time the FBI got involved, you were all so helpful,” I snipe at her.

She can’t say anything to that, can she? But the anger flares in her eyes: I guess I’m gonna piss her off into coming at me. Then I can enact …

Step Four: Take Agent North down.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snarls.

Oh, I’ve definitely found the right button to push. She’s practically yanked out her broken heart and handed it to me.

“I know a lot more than you,” I say. “I’m the one that’s been around Lee.” I go in for the kill, like I’ve been taught. Home in on the hurt. Then yank the bottom out from under them. “But you don’t call her that, do you? You use one of the aliases.”

“I use her real name.” It’s a jumbled-together snarl, defensive, and there, there, I did it! She’s up on her feet. She’s coming toward me! I need to be ready. I cannot mess this up.

I’ve never liked violence. But I’ve discovered I’m really good at it. I’ve discovered a lot of things lately. That’s what happens, when you push a girl too far.

The last week has pushed me way too far.

So when she gets too close, I just go for her. No thought. No hesitation. Because that’s another thing I’ve learned. There’s a fearlessness to being feral. A smoothness to sinking into the wild and dirt and away from order. I think I like it too much.

The element of surprise is in my favor—she scrambles backward, and then the boon of my life happens: she trips because of those ridiculous heels. She falls back, her hands full of those files, unable to brace herself as her head smacks onto the wood floor. She doesn’t recover fast enough, winded and reeling. I only have a second to decide but I make the choice fast. The rope’s in my hand, untangled. I kneel down, right on her stomach for extra pain and loop it around her neck and pull tight.

Then all her energy’s focused on getting her fingers under the rope instead of reaching for her gun. Red crawls along her face as I yank, putting my whole weight into it. My arms tremble. My lower back throbs. When I let go of the rope, she’s gasping and I’m grabbing her gun and the knife at her ankle before she can stop me.

North’s a pencil-pusher these days. Running an office instead of running after criminals. Not that she ever did much of that. Point is, she’s not a field agent anymore. She’s gone to seed.

North gags on the ground, her face bright red, eyes bloodshot.

“Christ, you’re fast,” she sputters out.

“She trained me,” I scoff. “You really don’t know Lee very well, do you?”

She tries to lunge, but ends up sputtering out blood instead. She must’ve bit her tongue when she went down. There’s that anger again, and the thrill that I pressed the right emotional button makes me dizzy.

I tuck the gun into my back pocket and then tie her hands with the same rope I was bound in. I don’t do a sloppy knot like her mercenary did on me. I knot it like Wes taught me.

“Why would you wear heels into the woods?” I ask her. “Even I know when to sacrifice fashion for terrain and circumstance.”

My knee presses against her diaphragm, pinning her as I pull the gun back out of my jeans. It looks a lot smoother than it feels. The first time Wes showed me how to shoot one of these things I threw up, and the second time I barely hit any of the targets, but she doesn’t need to know that. I got better after the third time.

There must be something in my face that scares her. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’ve got her gun pointed straight at her heart.

North chokes out something. It’s garbled underneath the pressure of my knee. I let up a little.

My name. Almost a plea.

Good. I’m glad North’s scared. She should be.

“Where is my girlfriend?” I ask again.

But North just gasps.

Step Five: Get an answer to the question.

“I’ll ask you one more time,” I say. I flip the safety on the gun. My knee presses harder into her diaphragm. Panic bubbles under my skin. Did I get it wrong? Did the worst happen?

“Iris—”

I ignore the way she’s choking around my name.

“Answer me,” I demand. “What have you done with Nora?”

Six years ago

Cave Springs Motel, California

“Are you ready?”

I nod.

I hear the slice of the scissors before I feel the give of my hair. Snip, snip, snip. Amelia—Lee, I remind myself. My sister’s name is Lee now—makes careful cuts, swaths of blond falling over my bare feet and the chipped bathroom tiles.

The motel is dingy—frozen in the seventies, which is the last time this area saw any real tourists. Now it’s a husk, the kind of place people move away from, not to. The forests and mountains that surround us are so green, so full of pine, that the stray oak scattered here and there that’s fading yellow stands out like a beacon.

I feel like an oak tree, when I need to be a pine. Blending in with the rest until you can’t see the individual, just the endless green.

It takes less than twenty minutes for her to shear it from me, the hip-length hair our mother used to coo was my most beautiful feature as she arranged it into whatever style she had chosen for that particular girl. It’ll catch a mark’s eye, every time.

A golden piece of jailbait. That’s what Raymond’s men used to call me when they didn’t think I was listening.

But I had learned to always listen. That’s why I’m here and they’re all back in Florida, either caught or running from the FBI.

I got free. Now we have to make sure they never find me.

Ashley Keane is dead.

The new girl is here to stay. If I do everything right.

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. Lee rustles around me, getting the hair dye ready.

“You’ll have to be diligent with it,” she tells me, as she pulls on the gloves. She begins to work the dye into my short hair. “Your eyebrows, too. So no roots show.”

“I understand.”

“We’ll do a dye day,” she suggests, a lightness to her voice that makes it sound almost fun instead of a necessity. “Watch movies. Do you like mud masks?”

“Do you like mud masks?”

She laughs, spreading more dye into my hair. “Okay, good point.” Her expression turns thoughtful, her hands stilling. “What do you like?”

“What am I supposed to like?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. I know it before it’s halfway out of my mouth. All the humor in her face is gone in a flash.

Her hands fall away from my half-dyed hair, and she takes a deep breath before she can talk again.

“I’m not mad at you,” she tells me. “I’m—”

“Mad at Mom.”

She nods.

“I like to read,” I offer tentatively.

“Yeah?” Lee grabs onto it like the lifeline it is. She and I, we are sisters, but what does that even mean when we’ve only learned about each other through a handful of guarded moments and matching habits and eyes and one too-risky plan that broke me free?

“Mostly biographies.”

“I read a lot of sci-fi.”

“Aliens and stuff?”

“Not just aliens,” she says. “I’ll lend you some of my favorites.” Her hands go back into my hair. “And you’ll give me the titles of some of yours?”

“Sure,” I say, trying not to let it show how strange it feels. To share something outside of a con.

She finishes my hair, then paints dye over my eyebrows after spreading Vaseline around them so it won’t stain my skin. So it won’t be obvious. So it will look natural.

Her movements are so practiced. She does this, what, every two weeks, at least? Maybe more. A ritual of disguise; a reminder … freedom is just another thing to lose.

Mom used to tell me that. Trust is a weapon. Truth is a spear. Freedom … it’s just another thing to lose, baby.

Another con. You can’t lose something unless you have it in the first place. So I took it, like the thief I am. We’ll see if I lose it.

Lee wraps plastic around my hair and leads me into the bedroom to wait. I sit on the scratchy polyester bedspread and stare at my hands, because I have lived a life of filling in silences with pretty talk and probing questions disguised as inane conversation, but I’m not supposed to do that with her.

I’m supposed to be real with her. But I don’t know how to be that. Not yet.

So I stare at my fingers and I wonder what they did with his. Were they able to reattach them? He’ll be so mad I hurt him.

“He’s going to kill me.”

Her answer is as immediate as my fear. “Raymond won’t find you.”

“What if he does?”

“Then we run.”

“And if the men he sends catch us?”

She won’t look at me. She won’t say it.

So I ask it.

“Did Mom kill any of the marks with you?”

Lee’s head whips toward me, her eyes wide, no mask, no hiding. Just a horrified spill of words. “Which one of them did she kill with you?”

Now I’m the silent one. Have I gone too far?

“Is that what Washington was about? Is that why you called and hung up?”

I nod. And then I offer something that feels like a defense; maybe it is, a little. “He deserved it.”

“He’s the one who—” She doesn’t say anymore. She doesn’t need to. Instead she stands up, pacing the space between the door and the bed, tight circles of anxiety, her fingers rubbing against her thumb.

“I’ll kill her,” she breathes, like she hopes I can’t hear. I don’t need to hear it, I can feel it in the room with us. An urge I recognize because it’s my familiar friend: the idea of matricide.

“You’re not a killer,” I say. That truth makes the back of my throat burn. I am much closer to it than she is and I’m still keeping secrets. Like the thumb drive I stole from Raymond and didn’t hand over to the FBI with the rest of the proof.

“Oh, fuck, kid,” she tells me. “You’re not pulling any punches, are you?” She rubs at her face, swipes her entire hand over it like it’ll mask her. When she looks at me, her eyes burn with the kind of promises I don’t really understand, because they’re about loyalty and love and I don’t know much about either.

“If anyone finds us, we run,” she says. “And if anyone catches us … if anyone tries to hurt or take you, I will kill them.”

“I don’t want that for you.” The words don’t feel like enough. It’s such a big emotion to feel, that panic at the idea of her doing what I had to that night, helping Mom dig in the soft dirt, her anger heavy between us.

Maybe I am poison.

I know I’m dangerous.

But do I always have to be deadly?

Her phone buzzes. The alarm for my hair. She looks down at it like she doesn’t know what it’s for, then she shakes herself out of it.

She rinses me out in the sink, warm water and her warmer hands through what’s left of my hair. She gives me a towel and my new clothes before she goes to finish packing. I wring most of the water out before pulling on the baggy black jeans I have to cuff so I won’t trip, and the blue T-shirt and the black-and-white flannel over it. I’m swimming in the clothes, and I kind of like the way it feels. I switch on the blow dryer, finish off drying my hair. It’s so much faster now that it’s short.

I keep my back to the mirror the whole time. But eventually there’s no excuse and not a damp strand left. So I turn to see her for the first time.

I stare at my dark hair, chopped and blunt and swinging around my ears, the back of my neck bare, so much lighter now that the length isn’t weighing it down. I look like cracked porcelain, a broken doll someone’s taken scissors and marker to with my big eyes under my now-dark brows, and I marvel at it for a second, the difference.

Who are you?

“All packed. We should get going,” Lee says from the doorway.

But I’m staring at the girl in the mirror. Lee’s been drilling me for days about an invented life to go along with the one she created in Clear Creek, but I need one final thing to make it real.

“You need to say it,” I tell her, and my eyes can’t meet hers, even in the mirror. The ache stretches between us, the knowledge of this ritual Mom created with both of us, the shame that I need it.

I can’t become someone new without it.

My sister comes up behind me, and her hands hover over my shoulders for a moment, like she’s afraid to touch, or maybe because she can’t bear to. “Have you chosen?”

I nod. She’s let me choose the name and my clothes and my hair. Mom never did. And I know enough to know it shouldn’t mean so much.

But it does.

I tell her, and her hands settle on my shoulders.

“Nora.” She smiles, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. Her hands squeeze my shoulders. “Your name is Nora.”

“Nora,” I repeat, staring at the girl in the mirror, the cadence of it carrying me. “Nora O’Malley.”

I close my eyes. My shoulders tilt, my hips shift, because Nora leans toward the right. She favors her stronger side, and she meets people’s eyes head-on, and she only smiles when something is actually funny. I breathe in and out, sinking into her.

When I open my eyes, there she is, staring back at me.

Nora.

She looks wary.

She looks worn.

But she feels free.

Day Seven, The Cabin

I’m still pressing Agent North into the ground with my knee, but I’m seconds away from losing the physical edge if I don’t get up soon. My lower back throbs with the effort because I’ve been bleeding on and off for days from the stress. I only have two of Nora’s emergency tampons left.

I hate this so much. I planned this entire trip around my period like I always have to. I hate how much more work it is, to keep her on the ground. If my thigh starts shaking, she’ll know and I’ll be fucked. I need to get both of us upright.

“Iris, I don’t know where Nora is,” Agent North insists.

“You’re lying. You have her bandanna.” I jerk my head toward the bloody purple bandanna on the coffee table. “She had that around her hand. I wrapped it myself. No way that fell off and you found it.”

“My colleague found it,” North insists. “Why would I lie at this point?” Her eyes bug at me. I don’t want to believe her. I really, really don’t.

“She’s probably lost in the forest,” North says. “If you let me up, I can help—”

“Your files on us must really suck,” I say, partly to distract myself from where my mind wants to go. Did I get it wrong? “They grew up here. They know how to move in the woods.”

“’Course she’d find kids as crazy as her,” North mutters.

“We are not crazy,” I snap right in her face, my mouth aching at the click.

She laughs. I can feel the vibration of it against my knee. “You’re touchy,” she says. “You’ll need to smooth yourself more, if you want to con people. Everything’s on your face.”

“I’m not a con artist, and Nora’s retired.”

“Oh, honey.” The condescension drips, and it sets my teeth on edge. “Come on now.”

“I actually know her,” I say. “You just think you do.”

“You sure it isn’t the other way around? Are you willing to bet your life on it?”

I push off her, keeping my hands steady on the gun, and the hope that flares in her face as I direct her up dies out as fast. North’s not a tall woman. We’re eye to eye now that she’s out of her heels.

“Iris, are you really going to do this?” Her voice rises. Stalling tactic. She’s hoping one of her dirty mercenaries will come back in time. I am not above using her as a human shield. “I am a federal agent. This is kidnapping.”

“There’s been a lot of that lately,” I say grimly.

“You have a future,” she prattles on, like that will move me. “You don’t want to die. This is not who you are.”

I ignore her as I march her across the one-room cabin and toward the back door. The one that leads into the thick of the woods, not through the clearing.

But she’s not getting the hint, she keeps going. “You’re a straight-A student. You have a devoted mother. I’m sure your father misses you—”

I huff. “North, your files on us really suck. Pick up those boots.”

“What?”

“Grab those boots by the door and put them on. I don’t want you whining about your feet the whole time we’re in the woods.”

“Iris …” She tries to make it sound like a warning, but it’s a plea.

I shake my head. “Do what I say.”

She takes her shoes off and shoves her feet into the boots.

“Lace them up. We wouldn’t want you tripping.” After she does, I get the door open so she can walk through it, following close behind, down the steps, closer to the edge of the woods.

The point of no return.

“You’re not this girl, Iris,” she says, her eyes fixed on the tree line. She sounds sure of herself, like she really believes it. It prompts me to ask, curious, despite myself:

“What kind of girl do you think I am?”

“You’re a good student, you seem to be a rule follower. You don’t even jaywalk.”

I frown, because that seems weirdly specific. Has she been watching us? I wait, gun at her back, wanting to hear more about this version of me.

“You have goals and ambitions. Wasn’t that what this trip was all about? Your internship at the fire tower?”

I can’t help the crazed smile that spreads across my face because, my God, I totally forgot about my internship.

“Let’s go with whatever silly theory you’ve come up with, North. It’s what you do.”

She chances a look at me over her shoulder. “If I’m wrong, why don’t you explain it to me?”

“Then I wouldn’t be smart. And I am.”

“You’re not this girl,” she repeats. “You’ve already taken so much of the fall—”

It startles me into stopping, but the gun doesn’t drop. “What are you talking about?”

She laughs. A harsh, knowing sound that makes my stomach clench because it’s so convincing for a second. But then she continues, and seals her fate. “She is dangerous. Natalie Deveraux is a killer.”

I let out a frustrated noise at the name. “Her name is Nora. Catch up, North.”

“How about you catch up, Iris? I know. I’ve read all the internal files about the bank robbery. All your reports and statements.”

The bank? She wants to talk about the bank? “So what?”

“I know that it wasn’t you who put together that chemical bomb that took out the first robber. And it certainly wasn’t you who set the second one on fire in the barn. Your girlfriend convinced you to take the blame so there wouldn’t be attention on her.”

It’s a hot jolt inside me, how wrong she is. What is with this woman? Every time she’s presented with the truth, she rejects it for her own storyline.

Unfortunately for North, I am the kind of girl who’d burn one bank robber’s face off with a bomb made out of cleaning products, and another’s with my petticoat and lighter. I didn’t need to cover for Nora, because I did all that myself. I came up with it on my own. I’ve always been good at chemistry.

Those guys put their hands on my girlfriend. Duane Collins—also known as Mortal Enemy Number 10 on my current list—tried to take her. I made sure he couldn’t do that anymore, like any rational girl armed with plenty of flammable underpinnings and the element of surprise.

But Duane’s no longer a problem. He’s in jail, and the robbery’s long over. We survived that, but we might not survive this, and now I’m here. At the edge of the woods.

At the edge of the cold, hard truth that Agent North does not want to hear.

But she really needs to start listening.

“Agent North, will you do one thing for me?”

She nods eagerly.

“I want you to think about it. Think about her. The girl you’ve decided Nora is. If I’m not a mark or a distraction. If I actually am someone she loves … then I want you to ask yourself: what kind of girl would someone like that fall in love with?”

I wait, teetering on the cliff as it falls over her face. The struggle, the realization, then the horror.

“You’re not—” she starts, but my smile stops her.

“I am everything you’re thinking. Probably more. Because I’ve had a very stressful week and it’s pushed me quite a bit. So if you’re telling the truth? If your mercenaries don’t have Nora stashed somewhere? You’ll find out how much farther I’m willing to go than setting a couple of guys on fire.”

“I don’t have her, Iris.” The panic in her voice cracks it.

There’s rustling in the brush and trees beyond us. I know the sound of Wes approaching now, after all these days of listening and hiding and waiting for his crow calls in the trees, heart in my hands, fear in my throat. Footsteps, followed by paws across the forest floor. Turbo’s with him. Good. Then I have everything I need.

“I hope you’re lying,” I say. “Because if you don’t have Nora, you’re the best bait I’ve got to get her back.”

(in order of priority)

Day Seven

12. My father (dealt with)

11. Wes’s dad (blackmailed by Nora)

10. Duane Collins (set on fire; currently in prison)

9. Abigail Deveraux (to be determined)

8. North’s mercenary #1 (temporarily detained)

7. Henchman #2 (injured; whereabouts unknown)

6. Batman-voiced Henchman (injured; whereabouts unknown)

5. North’s mercenary #2 (check with Wes)

4. Henchman #3 (whereabouts unknown)

3. Caleb (whereabouts unknown)

2. Agent North (currently captured by me)

1. Raymond Keane (the only other person who could have Nora)

Two days before the trip

It starts with that damn bird in the backyard.

Actually, no. I guess it starts with the dog, right? Turbo’s barking from the living room is what makes me look outside at the bird.

I mean, if you want to get particular, it starts last year, during the bank robbery/hostage situation that added a special layer to the bedrock of PTSD all three of us already had.

You could get really particular and say it starts in Florida on a tennis court that day Raymond Keane approached me and my mom; or that night, a few years later, when I chopped dear old stepdad’s fingers off to break into his safe and guarantee my FBI-bartered freedom.

Or, more particular: it really starts the day I was born to a con-artist mom who taught me everything she knew, made me a partner in her schemes as I grew up, only to dump it all to marry a criminal much worse than her and force me to turn snitch to escape before I hit my teens.

My life’s never been dull. But it did seem on the nose when I looked out the window a few weeks after graduation and saw the giant black bird hanging on the fence, like a special grim reaper sent just for me.

“Crow!”

I nearly drop my bowl of cereal. I didn’t even hear Wes come into the kitchen.

“Iris! Crow!”

“What?” She pokes her head into the room, looking where he’s pointing. “Yes! Let me get the crow call. Where did you put it?”

“I dunno.”

“I told you we should have fashioned a lanyard for it!”

I continue to eat my cereal as they run around trying to find the crow call. When they finally find it, they dash outside and take turns squawking at the crow through it.

Lee comes stumbling into the kitchen, her hair bed-head messy and purple smudges under her eyes. “Coffee?”

I nod toward the machine, my mouth full of Cocoa Puffs.

She pours herself a cup and downs it, then pours another before she frowns and looks out the window. “Crow?” she asks, after a second of watching Wes and Iris creep around the yard.

“Crow,” I say.

“Did either of them tell you why they want to attract some sort of corvid army to the backyard?”

“I think it started with feeding the robins and grew from there. And then when they did that stint at the bird rescue in Corning, Wes really liked working with them.” I shrug. “Here we are.”

“Nora.” Lee sighs.

“Hey! I am not a general in the corvid army. I’m innocent here.”

“You should see the list Wes has for me to take care of them while you three are gone on your trip,” Lee says.

I wince. Wes has a whole system with the bird feeders. He probably detailed it all for Lee.

“Sorry?” I turn to face her when I say it, but my apology fades off because she’s smiling out the window, watching the two of them squawk through the crow call at the bird, who’s watching back raptly.

“It’s fine,” Lee says. “But I’m buying another bird bath while you all are gone so they stop trying to use the pool. The chlorine can’t be good for them. Plus, it’s so hot.”

“Oh God,” I say, realization dawning on me. “You love the birds, too!”

“The little brown-and-white ones have lots of personality,” Lee mutters into her coffee.

“Softie.”

As if to prove my point, Turbo comes trotting into the room and homes in on Lee like she’s got radar.

“Are you sure you three want to take Turbo with you?” Lee asks, petting the dog’s blocky head. She lolls back into her, her brown eyebrows wiggling.

Turbo’s only got one eye; the other was too infected when she was rescued. They had to remove it, but she’s all healed now. Iris says it makes her look roguish. I think it makes her look like a pirate, but every time I’ve said that Wes has told me I’m not allowed to put an eyepatch on his dog. Like I would try something that cheesy. Iris is the one making Turbo flower crowns and setting up photo shoots. All I did was make Turbo some bandannas out of one of my old flannels.

“Wes wants to bring her. They’ve been doing long hikes for months now. And Turbo’s a good early warning for any big animals.”

“You’re bringing your bear spray?”

“Wes has cans for each of us.”

“Mm.” She pours more coffee. At this rate, I’ll need to make another pot.

To say she’s been less than thrilled about the idea of this trip would be an understatement. But she can’t do anything about it, which I know grates on her. It’s been a thing lately. The loss of all control. Especially considering the college thing.

Lee wanted me to go. And I hadn’t even applied. It wasn’t like I lied—I was upfront about not being interested. I told her what I wanted: to get my PI license and work with her. But that made her more upset.

I don’t know what she expected. I’ve wanted to be like her as long as I’ve known her. Was I supposed to stop wanting that and go to school? Sit in a classroom and listen to people talk about life when I’d lived half a dozen before I was a teenager? I’ve never liked school. I went because it was what a normal girl would do. And Nora was supposed to be normal. But Nora’s not a role anymore. She’s … me. And now Lee wants me to fill what might be my last years with more faking it.

But if I say that, we’ll fight again. All we’ve been doing since Raymond won his appeal is fight.

I understand why her instinct is to run. She ran to get away from Mom, and she ran right back to help me run. Running saved her and it saved me. Running has gone good for us, and Raymond’s out there, free, because they let him go on some legal technicality I don’t understand.

It wasn’t a surprise when it happened. But what happened next was. Because what happened after he was released was … nothing.

No one’s come for me. No one’s come for the thumb drive I stole from his safe all those years ago; his blackmail file that never made it to the FBI. I threw down my leverage like a shield, but I knew he’d take it as the threat it was. I don’t just know Raymond Keane. I survived him. There’s a difference. I wasn’t supposed to do either, but I did worse: I outsmarted him.

Which is why I’ve been waiting to get offed pretty much every day for the last four months. I would call it stressful, but I’m doing that thing Margaret, my therapist, calls compartmentalizing because what else am I supposed to do?

I glance across the kitchen at Lee. She’s still watching Iris and Wes. My eyes trace the familiar terrain of her profile, but I have to focus on my cereal soon enough, because it hurts to look at her too long. For all the questions in my head to build up.

For the guilt to twist.

Raymond knows where we are. He knows what I look like. He knows who I care about. Duane Collins made sure of that.

Which brings me to the choices. It’s the same choices as always. Washington. The Beach. The Bank. They say third time’s the charm. I’m assuming the fourth time is a curse or something.

But I’m right back in it. Run. Hide. Fight. Maybe the most useful thing they teach in school, which I know, is, well, fucked.

I keep telling myself, I have a choice between the three here—but is it one, when all the other times I’ve had to fight my way through so I could even think about running or hiding?

But we could run. Right now. Today. Tomorrow. There are plans in place since Lee brought me here to be Nora. We could find a new place to hide. New identities to wrap ourselves in.

I could say it’s hard to reject the impulse to run. But I’d be lying. And I’m doing enough of that right now.

Wes and Iris come clambering back inside, debating over lanyard-making materials, and I finish my cereal and pour them both bowls, setting them on the table. Turbo goes into what can only be described as spasms of delight when she sees Wes, even though it can’t be more than ten minutes since the two have been parted. Wes bends down and takes the dog’s entire head in his hands and rubs her cheeks as Turbo wiggles out all her joy—and dog fur—onto him.

“Did the crow say hi?” I ask Iris.

“We’re getting there,” Iris says, scooping the edges of her circle skirt with trompe l’oeil bows and ribbons around her before she sits, to prevent wrinkles.

“Hey, thanks for helping Amanda with her flat tire yesterday,” Wes says, finally pulling away from Turbo.

“Yeah, of course. Did you get the tent you wanted?” I ask.

He nods.

“Great. I should be done packing tomorrow.”

“I’ve gotta spend tomorrow night with my mom,” Iris reminds me. “She’s feeling all sad that I’ll be gone so long.”

“She and I can commiserate,” I say.

Iris laughs. “You get more time than she does! And my stint in the fire tower is only two weeks.”

“What do you think, Wes?” I ask. “You think we’re gonna be able to pull her away after two weeks?”

“Doubtful.”

She sticks her tongue out at us. “I can’t stay in the forest forever. I have to be in LA in September for my excision surgery. I certainly can’t miss that.”

Every time she mentions the surgery, I get a twinge of panic, but it’s a really good thing. It’s the best step to lessening her endometriosis pain. But it’s nerve wracking when your girlfriend gets cut open, even if it is by fancy surgeons and their state-of-the-art surgical robots. Iris has a whole brochure just on the robot.

“What are you up to today?” Lee asks.

“I’m spending time with Amanda,” Wes says.

“Iris and I are going swimming. At the lake.”

Iris frowns at me over her cereal bowl. “We are?”

I kick her lightly under the table. “We talked about it yesterday, remember?”

She takes a bite of cereal. “Right! Sorry. I need to stop at home and get my suit. I forgot to grab it.”

“Of course.” I smile at Lee. “I can make dinner. We’ll be home by then.”

“Sounds good,” Lee says. “You want me to bring Turbo to work with me? I’ll be at the office.”

“You’re gonna miss her,” Wes teases. “You can take her.”

“Come on, girl.” She lets out a sharp whistle, and Turbo comes skidding over to her, tail wagging. “See you three at five,” Lee says.

“Bye.”

Wes waves, his mouth full of cereal as Lee and Turbo leave, the front door shutting behind them.

“Do you think she suspected?” Wes asks in a low voice.

“Is she gone?” Iris looks over her shoulder.

I hold my fingers to my lips.

We wait.

I get up and go to the window, watching as the truck’s tail lights disappear down the road.

“She’s gone. Let’s get to work.”

Two days before the trip

“Hurry!” Iris says, tying a neat knot and then repeating the motion in a blur of movement.

“I’m going as fast as I can! Not all of us are as quick as you.”

She looks over her shoulder to make sure we’re alone in the living room before saying, a little hushed, “You were the one who was raised with pickpocket skills!”

“That did not give me balloon-tying skills!” I twist the rubber around my finger and knot it. I’m much slower than Iris, who has been going through the balloons like the birds outside go through suet nuggets. “We should’ve gotten those Mylar ones.”

“Here.” She pulls the balloon from my hands. “Go help Wes bring out the food. People are gonna be here any minute.”

“Get away, Wes!” I hear Amanda laugh before I go into the kitchen. She catches my eye. “He’s trying to add more pineapple juice to the punch,” she says, shooing him. “Are you done with the balloons?”

“Iris kicked me off balloons. I’m supposed to help with food now.”

“Well, watch the punch and I’ll go help her,” Amanda says. She rolls her eyes at Wes and his can of pineapple juice, popping her hip at him as she passes, and then I’m trying not to roll my eyes at the way he’s staring at her ass. Iris and I have the Amanda Edicts and we’re sticking to them, or else.

The else being Wes having to choose between his girlfriend and his forged-by-trauma bond with his two best friends … one of whom is his ex-girlfriend.

I told you, my life has never been simple.

“I’m all done here,” Wes says. “The food’s all ready.”

There’s a truly impressive array of Lee’s favorite food. Well, food group, I guess: the charcuterie board. Also known as fancy Lunchables. Iris and Wes have put together a dozen different ones. Plus they got fresh bread and honey butter from the bakery and this special balsamic drizzle thing you kind of want to pour into your mouth once you taste it.

“They look great,” I say, looking at the truly staggering array of cured meats. “Very nice salami roses.”

“Maybe I’ll go into catering,” he jokes.

“You should be going to college. Did you hear about the FAFSA appeal yet?”

He shrugs in a too-practiced way that makes my stomach dip into oh shit territory. “I got the letter last week. They rejected it. So unless my dad signs the income report …”

“Okay, you’ve got to let me pay for college, then,” I say.

“How exactly are you going to pay for my entire college education?”

I don’t say anything.

“Your silence makes me wonder all sorts of things. Especially paired with the ‘anonymous donation’ the animal shelter got a few months ago.” He widens his eyes sarcastically at me.

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“Hm,” he says, and he leans closer, voice lowering. “If you’re gonna lie to me, you gotta get better at it.” He scrunches his nose up at me when I make a face.

We bring the charcuterie boards out to the tables in the living room, where Iris and Amanda have finished the balloons. They’re bundles of blues and greens in the corners of the room, and the HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner across the window is homemade. Wes and I did it with Iris’s glitter glue.

“Everything looks great,” Wes tells the girls.

“You and Nora did a good job on the banner,” Amanda says.

“We tried.”

“Sorry I suck at the balloons,” I tell Iris, holding out a glass of punch as a reprieve.

“It’s okay.” She takes the glass from me. “Amanda’s faster than me.”

“My sister went through a water-balloon phase last year,” Amanda says. “You had to stay alert and armed at all times, because she’d spring out of nowhere and lob one at you.”

“That is so cute,” Iris says, her hands going to her neck, fiddling with her locket.

“Is that the locket Nora used to ask you to prom? It’s so pretty.” Amanda leans forward and Iris beams, holding it out for her to see.

“Isn’t it?” Iris asks.

“I love it!” Amanda slants an amused look at Wes. “You should take jewelry notes from Nora,” she tells him.

“Hey!” He pretends to be outraged for a second and then laughs.

“Nora, you have such a good eye,” Amanda says. “First that diamond pin at the flea market that everyone else thought was costume jewelry, and now this.”

“It was just something I saw at the antique store,” I mutter, my face turning pink as Iris leans forward and kisses my cheek and then giggles, trying to wipe off the lipstick she’s left.

A knock saves me from any further discussion of why I have such a good eye for jewelry.

“People are here!” Iris claps her hands together. “Do we have everything?”

“I think so,” Wes says.

“Operation Not a Surprise Party is a go,” I say, and walk over to answer the door to the first wave of birthday party attendees.

It’s maybe a mark of my sister and her ability to make friends anywhere that so many people show up. I could say it was the way we were raised—to understand and make others like us—but the second I was given the freedom to, I retreated from people except for the few I actually liked. Lee’s not that way. She built a community here. She’s part of one. I kind of lurk on the outside, part of it by the grace of Lee being in the middle of it.

People arrive in a steady stream for the next forty minutes. Iris makes sure everyone has drinks, and Wes is using that born-to-a-politician shine that allows him to excel at every social situation ever, and Amanda was an actual student politician, so she’s even better at it. They’re like a rural JFK and Jackie—Wes taking the Jackie role—and it’s really fucking cute, especially because when he looks at her, his eyes go soft in that way that’s usually only reserved for animals. Plus, them doing all the heavy social lifting lets me fade into the background. I’ve got the first round of food laid out, so I’m waiting by the window, trying to spot Lee.

“You okay?” Iris asks, coming over and handing me a glass of punch.

“Yeah,” I say. “Keeping an eye out for Lee.”

“Things are going good,” Wes says, as he and Amanda finish their circle of the room.

“I think so. Lee needs to show up, though,” I say, craning my neck to look out the window, but there’s no sign of her.

“Hey, so Amanda and I were talking,” Wes says.

“What about?” Iris asks.

“The backpacking trip.”

“Now, don’t feel like you have to say yes,” Amanda tells us. “Wes and I were talking about me tagging along. But only if you two are into it,” she adds hastily. “I know it was your graduation present, Nora. If you want it to be you three, I totally get it.”

“Oh my God, no way, you should come, it’ll be so fun,” Iris says. “Right, Nora?”

She turns to me, so Amanda and Wes can’t see her lips, and she mouths, The Edicts at me, just in case I need a reminder.

“Absolutely,” I say, because Iris is right: we made rules, and also Wes is looking so hopeful at me, and I can’t really expect him to third-wheel it through life, can I? “God knows these two made enough freeze-dried meals to feed, like, ten extra people.”

“You will be thanking us for our freeze-drying prowess on the trail,” Iris says primly.

“My chili recipe turned out great,” Wes agrees. “You’re cool with it?”

“The more the merrier,” I say. “Also, that means an extra person to help carry Turbo’s food.”

Amanda laughs. “I will happily be a pack-horse for the dog,” she says as I spot Lee’s truck coming down the driveway.

“Oh! There’s Lee. Let everyone know. I’ll be right back.”

I wait for Lee at the end of the driveway, and when she pulls up and sees me, she smiles. She opens the truck door as I walk forward, Turbo jumping out first.

“Hey, baby.” I bend down so she can nuzzle my face. “Did you have a good day playing PI?”

“What’s with all the cars?” Lee asks, coming over and pushing her sunglasses up on her head.

I straighten, which Turbo protests by flopping on her side onto my feet.

“Okay, so two things: this was Wes’s idea. And it’s not a surprise party. Because I’m telling you it’s happening. No one will scream Surprise! at you. I made sure of that.”

Lee looks over to the house and then back at me, arching an eyebrow.

“It was Wes’s idea,” I say again, which is kind of throwing him under the bus, but it’s also true. It was his idea.

“He felt bad about everyone missing your birthday next week,” I continue. “You know how much this stuff means to him. And to Iris. Iris threw herself into party-planning heels first.”

She purses her lips. “I don’t have to act surprised?”

“No acting surprised,” I promise.

She lets out a gusty sigh, and then a smile sneaks across her face. “Okay. C’mon, Turbo. Let’s go.”

We walk arm in arm into the thick of it, Turbo following close behind. No one shouts Surprise. When she fades into the crowd of people who’ve been helped by her, who love her, I let go of her.

It’s harder than I thought.

(Written by Nora & Iris, on the occasion of Wes & Amanda starting to date)

1: Don’t interfere in Wes & Amanda’s relationship
(no snooping, Nora!)

2: Make sure to ask Amanda to do things with us
(so she feels welcome)

3: Don’t make Amanda feel excluded
(no inside jokes, no focusing on old times, no being weird!)

4: Don’t do anything to make Amanda suspicious

Because:

5: Amanda can never know the truth.

Two days before the trip

It’s late when the last straggler leaves the party. Wes and I clean up on our own, Iris and Amanda have already left. Lee tries to help, but we shoo her away.

“I’ve got the rest of these,” Wes tells me, after we load the dishwasher and there’s a sinkful of dishes waiting their turn.

“We should’ve used paper plates,” I groan.

“Not as environmentally friendly. Go to bed. I’ve got it.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I pat his back sleepily. “Thank you. She really liked it.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. She’s gonna miss us.”

“Terribly,” he agrees, grabbing the dish-soap and sponge. “One more day.”

“One more day,” I agree, before I head to my room.

I don’t take a shower, because he’s using all the hot water for the dishes, so I change into my pajamas and settle on my bed, under the flannel duvet that I use all year round because I like how soft it is.

I’m writing in my notebook when there’s a light knock on the door and Lee comes in.

“Hey. So about tonight … Thank you,” Lee says. “It was very sweet.”

“That’s how you know it was all Wes.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know your handiwork, too, Nora.”

I draw my knees up under the blanket, my notebook flipping onto my stomach at the movement. “Yeah. I guess.”

“So thank you. It was a great birthday.”

“I’m glad.”

I trace the edge of my notebook. There’s a question lurking in my head. It’s been there ever since Wes suggested we throw Lee an early birthday party before we left.

“Can I ask you something?”

She comes farther into my room, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “Of course.”

“When’s your real birthday?”

“January,” she says, after a beat.

I nod, soaking in this information. Will we ever stop learning about each other? Maybe not. Maybe that’s what being a sister is. To watch each other grow and then slowly shrivel together with age and hopefully shared wisdom.

“And do you know when my birthday is? My real one?”

It’s a struggle to look at me, I can tell, but she keeps at it. She doesn’t glance away, even though I may have leveled her.

After all these years, I hate that I can still surprise her.

That Abby can still surprise her.

“I wondered,” I continue. “It’s not a big deal … It’s just … I only got to celebrate the girls’ birthdays. She … she never told me the real one.”

There’s quiet rage in Lee’s face.

I’ve shed so many things that were supposed to be secret and real. The names my mother gave me. The traits I was supposed to embody. The color of my hair. This little thing shouldn’t matter.

But the day you entered into the world … there’s something about not knowing that. There’s something about knowing Abby knows. I hate thinking she has something of mine.

“I’m not sure,” she says finally. “I think you were born in the spring? But I’d have to ask—”

“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “It’s nothing.”

“Right,” Lee says. But she doesn’t leave. “Are you all packed?”

“Wes made checklists,” I say, gesturing to the notebook in my lap. “I used them and everything.”

“I’m so proud.”

We smile at each other, and for a second it’s almost normal. And then: “When you get back, I’d like to have a talk.”

I raise my eyebrow. “We can talk now.”

She sighs. That long-suffering sigh that she’s been doing all year. “Nora …”

“Lee.”

She looks up, her eyes meeting mine, searching. My heart hammers suddenly, goes from normal to rata-tat-tat in a second.

“Do you trust me?” I ask her. I’m screwed if the answer is no, let me tell you.

“Of—”

“Seriously, truly, trust me,” I interrupt the automatic response, and my voice drops, too intense for this moment, but I can’t help it. “Do you trust that I’m the person you raised me to be?”

The space between us doesn’t fill with the silence or the questions that must be running through her head as I look at her, that thumping in my throat so dreadful and familiar.

She doesn’t ask what. She doesn’t ask how. She stares, quiet, taking me in.

The girl she raised.

“I trust you,” she says, three words that carve out a hallowed space between us.

“Then trust me.” Three words back that mean so much more. Can she hear it?

Her lips press together, and her hand twitches. Her thumb rubs against her pointer and middle finger, back and forth, back and forth, the nervous habit we both share. “We’ll talk when you get back.”

I have to ignore the dip in my stomach. “Yeah,” I agree, because I have to. “When I get back.”

Day One

55 miles to the Fire Tower

Iris is already waiting in the kitchen when I get up on the morning of our trip. I mumble a greeting to her and Lee, going straight for the coffee.

“I brought donuts,” Iris says, still bleary-eyed. The pink box beckons to me from the table, and when I flip it open I let out an inhuman noise that makes Iris laugh.

“A surefire way to start an almost sixty-mile trip.” Iris grins.

“Sixty miles for you. Eighty miles for me because Wes wants to take the long way out.”

“I forgot,” she says. Her purple hiking pants and well-worn boots and layer of shirts are modern, but she has her forties Pendleton jacket tossed over her shoulders. Apparently hiking clothes were a lot more wool-focused back in the old days. She’d overheat if she went all authentic. Plus, bringing vintage on a hiking trip seems like a recipe for mud and disaster, if you ask me.

“Donuts are the food of life,” I say, around a mouthful of a sprinkle one.

“You must be seventy per cent sugar at this point,” Lee says from the doorway, but she picks a donut hole out from the bag tucked inside the box.

“Where’s Wes?” I ask her.

“He left to get Amanda. He said he’d meet you at the trail since her house is halfway there anyway.”

“I hope he said goodbye.”

“Of course he did,” she says. “There was a card and everything.”

I can’t drag my feet, as we finish eating and put our stuff in Iris’s car. If we want to make good time today, we need to be on the trail by ten, and our start point is over an hour up the Five.

“Jessie will help me pick up your car after work today,” Lee says. “Terry’s getting Wes’s for him. So lock them up and don’t leave anything valuable in them.”

“Thank you for storing them while we’re gone,” Iris says. She reaches out and hugs her. “I’ll see you when I get back!”

“Have a wonderful time at your internship,” Lee says, squeezing Iris back. “I’m very proud of you.”

Iris pulls away and goes to the car, to give us a few minutes alone.

“This is it,” Lee says, and I don’t know if it’s my paranoid brain, but it sounds like a challenge. Last chance, and all that.

“I’ll be back soon,” I say.

She hugs me, squeezing tight for a there-and-gone second.

“Be safe,” she says firmly into my ear. “Do you hear me?”

“I do,” I say, when she pulls back and meets my eyes. I’ll try.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I say. “Weirdo,” I add, to break the moment, and she smiles.

“Get out of here. You’ll be hiking straight into the heat of the day at this rate. Text me when you get to the start point.”

“We’ll lose service after that,” I remind her.

“I know. Check in when you get to the fire tower and use their radio so I know a bear didn’t eat you. Otherwise I’ll send the forest rangers after you.”

“Like forestry has enough people to do that,” I scoff. “And a bear isn’t gonna eat me.”

She reaches out and ruffles my hair. “Go on,” she says. “I’ll pick you and Wes up in Yreka when you’re done.”

“Okay. Bye.”

I don’t walk backward, so I can keep looking at her, but so much of me wants to. Doesn’t want to waste a second in her presence.

I get into Iris’s car and buckle up, holding out my hand in a frozen kind of wave as Iris backs out and we drive away.

I turn then, craning my neck, watching her until we turn off the street and toward the highway.

Iris reaches over and grabs my hand. “I know you’ll miss her.”

“It’s okay. In a day or two she’ll be loving having the entire house to herself. By the time we all get back she’ll have won the birds onto her side.”

She smiles, but it seems strained.

“You okay?”

“I’m excited,” she says. “But my mom was all weepy this morning when I left. And it made me wonder what it’s gonna be like when I leave for school. She’ll be all alone.”

“You’re not starting until spring semester,” I point out. “So she has more time with you.”

“But after that …”

“Maybe she’ll meet someone.”

Her expression turns interested, her head tilting as she takes the ramp onto the Five. “I hadn’t thought of that. She’s never talked about dating.”

“She might not be into dating,” I say as we begin our drive through the Cascades. “But maybe she is. We could find some eligible bachelor, do a complete background check to make sure he’s actually an eligible bachelor, and then orchestrate their meeting.”

“Are you suggesting we try to matchmake my mother into a pre-planned meet-cute?”

I shrug. “Maybe?”

“That is not how you matchmake someone!”

“Okay, then what’s your plan?”

She laughs, incredulous and put on the spot. “I guess I would sit her down and ask her if she was interested in dating. Or if she needed more time after my dad. I’d want to make sure that … that she hasn’t been holding back or not going after love because of me or what I’d think.”

“Iris, she wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know how she was, the first few months after we left.” Iris shakes her head, her eyes solemn and focused on the road. “My aunt and uncle were so worried that when she told everyone she got the job here in Clear Creek, they wanted me to stay with them instead. But when she got everything together and moved us and we started our life over, I think she felt guilty for those months where things were tough on us both. Because it’s been all about work and me, ever since.” She shakes her head. “She deserves more than that. She could totally be holding back from dating because of me.”

“Okay,” I say. “So you ask her if she’s interested in dating and if the answer is yes, help build her a dating profile and then give me the names so I can screen the potential dates.”

“Tempting,” Iris says. “But power, responsibility, et cetera.” She waves a hand before putting it firmly back on the steering wheel. “Mom dating,” she muses. “I’m picturing an architect. Oh! Or that guy who owns Bistro 107. Victor, I think his name is.”

“The silver-haired one?”

She nods.

“Oh, he’s like old-movie handsome,” I agree. “We could do one background check?”

“Nora,” she scolds.

“As a present?” I resist batting my eyes. I know my own power.

“Nora!” Iris laughs.

“Background checks can be very useful things!”

“Violation of presumed privacy.”

“Fine,” I grouch.

“Maybe I will take Mom to Bistro 107 when I get back, though,” Iris says with a grin.

“Order the calamari. The spicy dip they make for it is amazing.”

“Do you think Wes and Amanda will beat us there?”

“He, like you, drives like an old person, so probably not.”

“Wow.” Iris clucks her tongue. “The last time I let you drive, we almost got a speeding ticket.”

“Key word here being almost.”

She shakes her head, her smile spreading. “We might not make good time today.”

“We’ll make up for it if we don’t get ten miles in today.”

“I don’t want to be late.”

“We won’t be.”

“I want Rachel to be glad I’m there, you know?”

“Iris, she’s lucky to have you. The whole program is.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“They are! Who doesn’t want an intern? Especially a smart one like you?”

“Someone who seeks out fire-tower watch work for the solitude?” Iris suggests.

“Okay, there is that,” I say. When she had started researching the internship at Fire Tower #4, she’d read me poems and short stories that had been written in these strange crows’ nests that rose above an evergreen sea, their inhabitants watchful for the spark of wildfire in the Cascades. There’d been a lot on nature and solitude, which made sense considering, by their nature and design, the fire towers were remote and hard to get to. “But you’re so good with people. And everyone loves you. Plus, you’ll have all this work to do.”

Her eyes gleam at the mention of work. “I can’t wait to get my hands on the maps.”

“Shouldn’t there be, like, some sort of radar gun you can point toward the smoke and it’ll measure things for you?”

“I wish. There’s been innovations, but a lot of work has stayed the same since the nineteen hundreds.”

“I guess I get why someone would go out there to be alone and write.”

“Not something you’d want to do?” she asks.

“I’d miss you. I’m going to miss you.”

She reaches over, squeezing my thigh, and she keeps her palm there, above my knee, and when I cover her hand with mine, everything feels all right for a minute.

Day One

55 miles to the Fire Tower

The only spot left in the campground lot is on the other side from Wes and Amanda. Iris and I get out of her car and Wes waves at us as they begin to walk forward, Turbo already leashed and looking like she’s having a ball.

“Let’s go.” Iris grabs her backpack, which makes her look smaller than she is when it’s on her back. I grab mine, and we lock her car up, leaving the key in a magnet case underneath the bumper for Lee.

We join Wes and Amanda, and fill up our water bottles before we all use the campground bathrooms, because it’s peeing in the woods and what-not from here. I’m the last one out of the bathrooms, and Turbo bounds toward me when she sees me.

“Can I take her for a while?” I ask, as we cross the parking lot and head away from the campground and to the wood post on the side of the road that marks the beginning of the trail.

“Sure. She’s bored of me,” Wes says.

Iris and Amanda snort at the ridiculous statement at the same time and then grin at each other. I feel a flash of relief. Maybe this will all be okay.

I help Iris adjust the straps on her backpack and, for a second, the four of us hesitate. A moment of silent anticipation on the side of the road, trees and miles to go before us.

“You ready, Amanda?” Wes asks after he hands me Turbo’s leash and I wrap it around my palm. Turbo is aptly named and hasn’t quite learned the benefits of not tugging fiercely on a leash when she’s excited. And the forest will be full of all sorts of smells and squirrels.

“Always,” Amanda says with a careless grin over her shoulder as she steps down off the road and onto the trail.

“Ready?” Iris asks as we watch him follow her.

Her hand finds mine, and I squeeze it back so tight.

“For anything,” I answer.

Ten months ago

The call comes three weeks after I visit Abby in prison. It comes to Lee’s cell phone, not mine, but I know the ringtone she’s set for the prison.

So I know the precise second I’m totally fucked.

I’m in my bedroom, so I sit there with my book, the dread building to a full-on Beethoven-like crescendo as I hear Lee’s voice murmur in the kitchen.

“Okay,” I hear her say. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll get started immediately.”

She hangs up, and I think about pulling my blankets over my head like I’m a kid. Just … turtling into them so I won’t have to meet her eyes when she comes into my room.

She lets me sweat. Or maybe she’s staying in the kitchen long enough to be sure she won’t murder me herself. But eventually—like, fifteen minutes of sweating it out later—she heads down the hall.

She doesn’t knock, and she always knocks. She comes inside, and instead of sitting on the edge of the bed—that’s what she likes to do when she wants to have one of these talks—she stays standing.

So an entirely new kind of talk. Vibrating-with-anger sort of talk. Nora-crossed-a-huge-boundary talk.

“What were you thinking?” she asks me.

I don’t try to play like I don’t know. Lying at this point is no use.

“I was thinking that I needed to maintain your cover,” I tell her. “If Abby thinks we’re still apart—that I’m in the hands of the marshals and in witness protection—that makes things easier. She never told Raymond about you. He doesn’t know you exist. We can use that.”

“You went to see her.”

“She’s my mother.”

“Don’t you dare,” Lee says. “Don’t pull that shit with me. You flew to Florida. Under your Ashley Keane alias—how did you get ID for her? I didn’t make it for you.”

“I have her Social Security number. I got a reissue of the fake birth certificate Mom filed and got ID from there.”

“Do you understand what you’ve done? You’ve pinged on every single radar—”

“Yes, I know,” I interrupt softly.

She stares at me, trying to understand.

“We can’t hide anymore.” I wish I could say it gently, because hiding is what we’ve done for so long and it’s my fault that we can’t anymore. But there’s no gentleness to shattering the only safety we’ve ever had. “Raymond already knows where I am.”

“I am aware,” Lee says icily. “So.” She sticks out her chin. So determined to tear my world apart. Not even because I’ve done the same to hers. This isn’t payback.

This is her trying to save me.

“We can choose together,” she says. “Escape Plans two through six apply here. Pick one of them.”

She folds her arms, waiting expectantly.

“No,” I say simply.

“No,” she echoes.

“No,” I say. “I don’t want to run. I want to fight.”

“Not an option,” she says. She shakes her head. She unfolds her arms, pointing at me. “Get out of bed. Get your stuff. Call Wes. I’ll choose a plan.”

“You can’t.”

“Excuse me?”

I look down. I have to tell her. But it’ll change everything.

She’ll be so mad.

I didn’t only play the FBI. I played her. For years.

“What did you do?” Lee demands.

“I love you,” I say, and the horror on her face crashes over her features like a wave. “But when I was twelve … Look, I loved you back then; I trusted you. But I was years away from processing all the fucked-up things—” I stop. “I didn’t really understand how much you—” I fall silent again. Because there’s no words for her sacrifice. For what she’s done for me.

I’ve taken that gift and crushed it in my palms like a piece of paper.

She sinks into my desk chair like she can’t keep standing.

“What did you do?” she asks again, hushed.

“There was this other drive in Raymond’s safe. It was encrypted differently than the other ones. So I kept it.”

“You what?”

“When I was a kid, it was … a safety thing. Just in case, you know? But then …” I lick my lips. “Well, I took that computer class freshman year, remember? And then I picked up some more skills, and then I, well, kind of decrypted the drive.”

“Oh, fucking hell.”

“This is why you should be glad I don’t want to go to college! If I pursue higher education, I’ll get into more bad situations by picking up more skills!”

“Nora, this is not the time.” Lee glares at me.

“So the files inside the drive were really disorganized. It took me a while to realize what it was.”

“And what exactly is it?”

“It’s his blackmail files. Basically dirt on everyone he’s ever wanted to control or is controlling. Politicians across the country—and some in Canada and Mexico. Police. FBI. There’s even someone who I’m pretty sure is CIA. It’s … well, it’s very extensive.”

“And you’ve had this for six years?”

“Well, technically I’ve only known what’s inside it for three years.”

“And you never thought to tell me about it?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“That’s bullshit,” Lee says. “I get the excuse that when you were getting out of Florida, you were gun-shy. But all these years … you didn’t trust me enough to tell me?”

“It’s not about trust,” I say. “It was about having something that was mine. Having leverage. Just in case.”

She’s silent.

“I needed something,” I say. “I didn’t know what it was, but I knew I needed it. And then when I knew what it was …”

Will she hate me? Can she hate me? Is she capable of it? Is it fair if she isn’t capable of it, when I’ve made a decision for both of us?

“I told myself I would use it if I had to,” I say. “And then I had to.”

“You told Abby about the files.”

“If I put them up for sale, it’ll look like he did it. Neither of them will survive the aftermath. She’s too tied to him. Their enemies will come. Then it’ll be over.”

“Simple. Clean. Efficient,” Lee says.

“All the things we were taught.”

She’s thinking it through, rubbing her fingers against her thumb. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“How do you keep him from coming and getting it?”

“Failsafe program,” I say. “I’ve got it set up so I have to enter the password each day, otherwise the files upload on the black market from a Florida IP address that traces back to one of his shell companies.”

“So if he kills you or takes you …”

“The files get out.”

“Smart. But not smart enough,” she says, ever the critic.

“You think you can do better?”

Lee takes the question seriously, which I appreciate. “Why didn’t you release them and let him get shivved in the shower?”

“I was trying to be a better person like you and Margaret keep telling me to be,” I snap.

She huffs a half-laugh. “Nora, have I ever voiced a desire to keep Raymond Keane alive?”

I scowl. “No.”

“I have, in fact, expressed regret at not marching onto that beach and finishing that man for good, have I not?”

I hate it when she gets all formal and lawyer-y. She’s not even a lawyer!

“Okay. Fine. I haven’t really figured out how to release the information without also putting a target on my back. Because Raymond would probably get killed in the immediate reaction of all the blackmail material flooding the market, but once all the assholes he had dirt on calm down, they might start digging.”

“And everyone knows Ashley Keane handed drives over to the FBI,” she says in realization. “Christ.” She buries her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I didn’t think to make sure you gave North all the hard drives.” She shakes her head. “You are such a sneaky brat sometimes.”

“I’m a brat who now has something to use against the man who wants to kill all of us, so you should be thanking me! It’s more of a plan than anyone else has.”

“I have a plan. I have, in fact, twelve plans,” Lee says. “I have tailor-made escape plans akin to bespoke suits and you—” She shakes her head. “You …”

“I don’t want to be someone else,” I say. “Can’t you understand that? Don’t you care, too?”

She gets up and comes over to sit next to me on the bed. She tries to take my hand, but I twitch mine away, hating how she looks at me. Pitying. She’s good at not doing that. But there are differences in the way we were raised. Different horrors.

I was born for the con. Lee was forced into it after years of a real life.

I was born out of a need. My life’s purpose was to be Abby’s partner.

Lee was born out of love. Her purpose was to be loved. And then Abby made her purpose to be used.

Lee had a father. She remembers an entirely different Abby. An Abby who was a mother, not a partner. She lost what I never had.

My version of Abby was always a partner, and only a mother for the con.

I think that makes it easier in some ways and harder in others. Lee has memories I don’t. Real experiences I only faked. She has memories of a real mother to haunt her, and I don’t have to chase the ghost of an Abby I never knew.

“Aren’t you Lee more than you’re Amelia?” I ask her, because suddenly I have to know.

“I am your sister,” Lee says. “That’s who I am. The names … they don’t matter to me. I know they matter to you. And that’s valid. But Lee … Amelia … whatever I’m called doesn’t change how I see things. What I fight for. Who I love.”

“You want me to leave who I love behind.”

This time when she takes my hand, I don’t move away.

“It’s never easy,” Lee says.

“It’s not the same,” I say. “You and Agent North … it’s not the same as me and Iris.”

“Do you think Marjorie’s the only person I’ve left behind?” Lee asks quietly.

It startles me, because Lee rarely talks about her life before. Those years when I wasn’t born, where she hid from Abby in LA and honed her PI skills.

“I’ve had to reinvent myself so many times,” Lee says. “Leave so many people behind. It never gets easier. But it is sometimes necessary.”

I shake my head. “I need you to understand something.” My hands squeeze hers. It’s meant to reassure, but it becomes a warning as I stare her down. As my sincerity burns between us.

“I won’t leave Iris. If you trick me, if you knock my ass out and drag me across an ocean before I wake up … I will find my way back to her. Every time.”

“Nora,” Lee says patiently. “I know you love Iris—”

“If you do trick me, not only will I come back here, I will never, ever forgive you if something happens to Iris while I’m gone.”

Her hands drop away from mine. “Nora.” I can hear the hurt as her voice shakes.

I need her to understand how different this is. How serious I am.

“I’m not sorry,” I say. “I can’t be. This is what you wanted for me, right? A real life. A true love. Isn’t it what you worked for? What you sacrificed all that for? What you taught me to hold on for?”

“Oh, Nora,” she says, because you can’t fight the truth.

I take her hands again.

“I love you,” I say. “You gave me this. But I can’t let you take it away. And I don’t want to take it away from you. This life you built for us. Not when I made sure I had something to protect us with when the day came.”

Lee’s quiet for a long time. So long I’m convinced she’s half contemplating knocking me out right there and dragging me off. But I’ve trapped her, and she knows it.

“Okay,” she says. “Then why don’t you tell me more about the blackmail file.”

Day One

54 miles to the Fire Tower

I never spent time in the forest until I was Nora.

I lived a life of cities. A steady hum of activity at all hours. Even at the beach house, as isolated as it was, it was always buzzing with staff and bodyguards and Raymond’s men, the sound of the waves an ever-present white noise.

When Lee brought me to Clear Creek, I didn’t know how to deal with the quiet. There was no manufactured noise to lose yourself in. To drown out the thoughts.

I had so many thoughts back then, and it took a long time for me to talk in therapy about anything real. So the quiet, it nearly killed me.

But when Wes and I became friends, he and his friend Terry took me hiking because Terry thought it was hilarious I’d never been. Terry laughed about it so much that I wondered if I should’ve lied.

Lee hadn’t given me a neat trio of traits for Nora to be like Abby always did. Lee may have repeated my new name as an almost-blessing, but she refused to give me traits when I asked for them.

You’re living a life, Nora. Not playing a role.

I was barely starting to realize back then that the point was not to lie as much. That I needed to live in the bits of truth that I could give. I didn’t understand at twelve that the bits of Nora I made mine would make me all hers in the end. That there’d be no lines. There’d just be a person.

So Wes took me hiking. Once. Twice. And then it became a regular thing. A thing we did.

I discovered something about the forest, the more time I spent in it.

The woods are all about survival. And I understand survival.

In the woods, I could use the knowledge of the girls who’d survived, the ones with the knitting needles and the lunchbox and the fists and the knives, and no one would look at me strangely.

She’s the ultimate roulette wheel, the forest. A gambler’s paradise if you’re willing to bet your life.

That’s why I loved it. That’s why I stamped happily after Wes on trail after trail.

It’s why, when he and Iris presented me with this trip for my early graduation present, my entire stomach leaped into my throat. In a good way. Me and the forest and my two favorite people? What could be better?

“How many miles are we aiming for first day?” I hear Amanda ask up ahead.

“Ten,” Iris answers. “Fifteen tomorrow.”

“Awesome! So tell me more about this internship,” Amanda says. “Wes was saying it’s really exclusive? It sounds like a big deal.”

“Oh, no, it’s not,” Iris says, even though Amanda is completely right. Iris was selected out of a ton of applicants.

“It’s very exclusive,” Wes insists, calling over his shoulder as he brings up the front. It’s like second nature: he’s got the front, I’ve got the back, keeping Amanda and Iris between us, just in case.

“I’m happy to get to learn all the basics,” Iris says. “I want to learn more about forest fires.”

“Well, let’s hope there aren’t any fires while you’re on watch,” I say quickly.

“Seriously,” Amanda says. “Surviving the Iron Mountain fire was tough enough.”

I can’t help it, even after all these years. My fists clench in reminder. I can almost smell the smoke. The way Wes looked at me over that open bag. What is this? Who are you?

I don’t glance over at Wes. But I know if I do, his shoulders will be a tense line. Does he remember it like I do?

I couldn’t leave you. You’re my girl.

But I wasn’t for long after that.

Fire destroys. And it reveals.

“Nora took me out to see the burn scars once,” Iris is saying to Amanda. “It was wild. Two hundred thousand acres or something, right?”

Amanda nods. “It wiped out half of Slate Creek before heading to Clear Creek.”

“Almost took our house,” I say.

“Remember the smoke?” Amanda asks me. “My sister Emma’s asthma was so bad that year.”

“They never did rebuild the school or the library,” Wes says.

“Too many people moved,” Amanda says. “That’s when we started getting bused over to Clear Creek for school instead.”

“And you ended up in my history class,” he says, and they look goofily at each other.

Iris’s hand brushes against mine, and she squeezes it for a moment. I lean in so our shoulders touch and then have to veer away before our canteens get entangled.

I let Iris and Amanda’s talk swirl around me, switching walking Turbo on and off with Wes, and by the time we stop for lunch we’re already five miles into our day.

“Those two are such map geeks,” Amanda laughs, coming to sit next to me as Iris and Wes lay out the map, anchoring it with small rocks and marking how far we’ve gone.

“They will do this every meal stop,” I tell her. “There’s talk about framing it after.”

“I’m not surprised.” She smiles. “I’m really glad you were okay with me tagging along. I know it was kind of last-minute.”

“Of course,” I say. “I know you two only have so much time. Before college starts, I mean.”

“This is really good,” she says, gesturing to the dehydrated lentil curry Iris and Wes heated up on the camp stove for lunch.

“Don’t get the two of them started on freeze-drying,” I tell her. “Not unless you want them to spend the last five miles talking about it.”

Amanda’s blue eyes twinkle. “I’ll make a note of it.”

We end up walking more than ten miles, mostly because finding a good place to camp near the trail is tougher than we expected.

“This is what happens when you don’t take an official trail,” Iris tells Wes as he rejects the third spot.

“The official trail takes almost two weeks to get to the fire tower,” Wes says. “The hunting trail takes less than half that. Let’s look some more, okay? I’m feeling lucky.” He rubs his hands together dramatically like it’ll summon luck or a leprechaun or a rainbow with a pot of gold or something.

“Weirdo,” Iris says, but she follows right behind him as he keeps us moving.

“We are so not getting dinner at this rate,” Amanda cracks next to me.

“This is why I come prepared.” I hand her a bag of jerky from my sling pack looped across the front of my chest.

“Bless you.”

“They’ll find a good spot,” I say. “They’re …”

“… wanting everything to be perfect?”

“Also Wes is probably looking for bear scat, and Iris is scouting best escape routes in case of a wildfire.” And I’m looking for danger in any form, but I’m not about to say that to her.

Amanda lets out a laugh that’s more nervous than amused, and I mentally wince, managing to hold back the physical flinch so I’m not incredibly obvious.

“Sorry,” I say. “Just thinking silly stuff out loud.”

“Hey! You two!”

I look away from Amanda’s puzzled expression toward Iris, waving at us from down the path.

“We found a spot! Come on!”

Setting up camp that first night is kind of a mess. I’d accounted for three people, not four, so the chore cycle Iris created is all screwed up and it takes forever to set up both tents.

“We’ll hit our first water source tomorrow,” Iris says, as I hang the bladder bag of water on a tree branch and she removes the supplies we need for dinner from the food bag. “After that, we’ll be close enough to the stream for a few days to get water for dinner.”

“Bear bag ready?” Wes asks.

“All done.” Iris hands it over to him. “Where are you going to rig it?”

“There aren’t any bear wires out here, because we’re off the official trail. But there’s a good oak about four hundred feet south.” He points in that direction. “Want to walk it with me?”

“I’ve got to start cooking. Amanda’s gonna help. Take Nora with you.”

He looks at me and I nod, getting up.

“Stay, Turbo,” he says.

“C’mere, girl.” Iris snaps her fingers, and Turbo glues herself to Iris’s side, gazing up at her like she’s hung the moon. “Oh, don’t forget.” She tosses me something. I snatch it from the air before I recognize what it is.

“A crow call?” Wes asks, confused. “Why’d you bring those?”

“I brought one for each of us. I’m teaching Nora about birding,” Iris explains. “She’s gotta practice.”

I tuck the crow call into one of the zippered pockets of my sling pack. “Ready when you are.”

Wes leads the way, the bear bag slung over his shoulder. Out here, you’ve got to be careful with your food. The forest’s full of bears, because the Iron Mountain fire drove a lot of the wildlife north—in this direction. The last thing you want is a bear or a raccoon chasing after you. Wes would never let us hear the end of it if someone got bitten by a raccoon and had to get rabies shots.

“You okay?” he asks, as I trudge after him in silence.

“I’m fine,” I say, jumping over the fallen log in our path instead of taking his offered hand.

He raises an eyebrow, but he keeps quiet until he stops in front of the oak tree he staked out for the bear bag. He tosses the rope over the second-lowest branch, and I help him rig the bag up, making sure it’s hanging a good fifteen feet in the air, far from the claws of a curious bear. I tie the rope to a nearby pine tree and then call him over to check my knots because he’s always been better at them than me.

“You’re getting good at the slipknot,” he tells me.

“Yeah, it only took me three years.”

He rolls his eyes. “I guess you’ve always been better at getting out of knots than making them.”

“Abby never bothered to teach me how to tie them. Only how to get out of things.” It’s a thought that almost comes out unbidden. Because we’re alone and it’s him and me and Amanda’s not in earshot.

I thought it would be like this the whole trip: me and him and Iris, no faking, no careful skirting around certain truths.

I have been skirting around things so much since he and Amanda started dating. I’m exhausted. And spoiled, I realize. Once Iris found out about me, it was like this giant weight had lifted. I could just be around everyone I cared about. It was like a drug. Not that I’ve actually done any drugs because that seems like a bad idea with all the shit I’ve been through.

But the truth, being able to live in the truth, with both of them?

It was intoxicating. Not having to be on guard, not having to constantly use my brain, to be three steps ahead, just in case.

Then Wes started dating Amanda, and I had to go straight back to all that. The brain-using, the three-steps-ahead thinking, the just-in-case-ing every single move.

I can feel his gaze sticking on me, and I let out a breath.

“You okay?” he asks again. “I know I kind of sprung it on you, Amanda coming with us.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say.

“She originally had to babysit. It was a last-minute change.”

“Wes,” I say gently. “It’s really okay. You know we like her.”

“I just wanted to be sure.”

“Well, be sure,” I say with a smile.

He smiles back, looking relieved before checking the knot one more time and heading back.

“You coming?” he calls, looking over his shoulder.

“Be right there.”

I keep my smile on my face. I don’t let it fall as he walks away.

That’s the thing about a con.

You never drop the act. Even when the mark’s back is turned.

Four months ago

The day of Raymond’s appeal, I leave a note for Lee, but I get out of the house before dawn. I’m up on the bluffs before sunrise, me and the pinks and oranges and the sun. I turn off my phone, and I sit on the hood of my car and try to be very still.

His freedom equals my death warrant. That’s the only reason someone hasn’t come for me. Because he wants to do it himself.

I’ve gone from being the girl no one could find to the girl no one can touch. And that’s about to end.

It’s just a matter of what he’ll do to get his blackmail files from me. If he’ll torture the answer out of me. If he’ll kill my family. My friends. There are lots of options. They’re all so fucking horrible I’ve been tucking them in boxes in my mind and locking them up tight.

Compartmentalization, thy name is Nora.

But now they’re all flying open. An endless reel of possible deaths, destruction, and pain playing in my mind.

When I finally turn my phone on, I see the text from Lee. One word. Acquitted.

It’s expected. He always finds a way. We have that in common.

And then I get a second text from my sister:

Please come home.

I don’t go home, though. Instead, I drive north for two hours, taking an exit off the highway and pulling up to a storage unit.

There are twelve escape plans. Lee wrote them. Sometimes I picture her, sitting in that restaurant, scribbling out plans on those napkins stamped with olives. Her determination to get me away from Abby and then keep me away from Abby. No matter what.

And now, all her hard work, it’s for nothing.

He’ll come. He’ll kill me.

But he’ll kill them first.

I pull up to the storage unit in the back, getting out of the car and twirling in the code for the lock. I push up our unit’s door and step inside, closing it behind me. Darkness envelops me until I turn my phone’s flashlight on and find the light switch.

It’s like the last time I was here. Shelves set in the back of the unit, trios of duffel bags arranged neatly on them, index cards taped underneath each one. 1–12.

Lee altered the plans to include Wes when I told him who I really was. Neither of us could leave him behind. I remember the first time I brought him here and gave him the code and the instructions and explained how to make sure he wasn’t being followed to the secondary location.

I run my hand along the edge of the shelf, brushing against each bag, counting down silently.

My hand hovers over the first duffel. It’s the one that contains the solo plan. The Nora gets out and Lee and Wes will follow when they’re contacted plan.

I should grab hold. I should accept this. That it’s for the better.

I’m poison. I need to go.

Raymond will kill them otherwise.

But I can’t make myself do it. I can’t grab it.

I can’t leave Iris. I’m too selfish. I love her too much.

I turn, lungs tight, determined to get the hell out of here before my sense kicks in. I grab the bottom of the door and push it up.

“Shit,” I say.

Iris stands there, her arms crossed over that fuzzy mint-colored sweater that makes me think of ice cream and cool mint-chip kisses. Her brooch—little wooden horses dangling from a horseshoe—swings back and forth as she taps her foot. “Going somewhere?”

“Um. Home?”

“You just thought you’d make a pit stop at your secret storage unit first?”

“Yes?”

“Wes owes me a hundred bucks,” she says. “He bet me you’d go with Plan 3.”

Heat flushes my face, half anger and half humiliation at getting caught so easily. “He lurking around somewhere?”

“No, he’s staking out the other storage unit in case you went to that one.”

“So you two are conspiring against me.”

“Someone has to.”

“I can’t believe he thought I’d choose Plan 3. Plan 3 requires a mini-van and living in Idaho,” I mutter as she makes a show of pulling out her phone. I bet she’s texting him that she’s caught me. “Why would I want to live in Idaho?”

“Why are you trying to escape at all? You said you wouldn’t.”

“I didn’t promise. And I wasn’t escaping. I was … contemplating things. It’s been a really bad day.” It’s not like I had expected him to stay in prison. But maybe there was a small spark of hope some Hail Mary would save me, and now it’s stamped down and dead.

I’m think I have to save myself—and everyone else—this time.

“I know it’s been a terrible day,” she says. “But you don’t get to run away on your own. To Idaho or anywhere else.”

“Iris, if I go, Raymond will chase me. I can let myself be spotted enough that he’ll keep chasing me. He won’t come here—”

“He has every reason to come here and kidnap or kill everyone you’ve ever talked to—let alone loved—to draw you out, you dumbass. We’ve talked about this. Exhaustively. The only way this goes right is if we work together. We stick together. We don’t split up. You don’t ride off into the sunset and somehow save us because he’s chasing you. It’s like a wolf pack; we’re stronger together.”

I press my lips together, fighting the urge to argue. Fighting the urge to run, run, he’s coming, he’ll kill them all and then you.

“If you run, Raymond’s not gonna be the only one chasing you,” Iris says. “If you run, you have to tell me. Or I swear on my vintage, Nora, I’ll dedicate the rest of my life to running after you. And I’ve got more important things to do. Like having an actual life with you.”

I can’t say anything to that. Because it’s the only thing I want.

A life with her.

She steps closer, and I think for a second she’ll reach for me, but instead, she passes by me, into the storage unit.

She comes to a stop in the center, illuminated by the lone bulb, her eyes fixed on the shelves.

“So these are the plans,” she says.

“Yeah. Well, the stuff for them. And the step-by-step instructions.”

“Lee wrote out instructions?”

“I was a kid when she made them. I couldn’t drive. She had to revise them when I got my license and when Wes …” I trail off when she turns to me and I see her face.

The quiet acceptance. The grief.

“I know Lee didn’t revise them for me,” she says.

“Iris—” My chest aches. I desperately want to touch her, but I’m so scared she’ll pull away.

She shakes her head. She turns back to the shelves. The rows of bags. Three for each plan. One for me. One for Lee. One for Wes.

None for Iris.

“I understand,” she says. “If I was Lee, I wouldn’t risk it, either. I’m a liability. I have my mom and her family. I have people. And you and Wes didn’t until Lee. It’s easier for you to disappear … and impossible for me to. So I’m not part of the plans. Because if I disappeared, my mom would crisscross this entire world looking for me, screaming hell and fury the whole time.”

“She would,” I agree. It’s why I like Carol so much. She asked me to call her Carol after Iris came out and she realized we weren’t just gal pals. It made me feel kind of special, getting to use her first name and how she smiled when she saw us together. I wonder if that’s how Wes felt, when Lee and I tucked him under our broken wings and cleaned out the room that had been storage and suddenly there was a bed there and his books.

Finding your family is kind of sacred. Fighting for them is the same.

Carol’s proved, unlike any of the other mothers I’ve known, that she’ll fight for her kid.

And Lee is smart enough to know that’s a giant complication she shouldn’t risk.

Iris is quiet for a long time, staring at those bags, at what they represent.

A family.

She turns back to me and closes the space between us, out of reach.

“Wes told me once, that to love you is to lose you in the end,” she says.

“That’s …” I try to breathe out the hurt, because wow, gut-punch. “I—” I swallow against the bitterness.

Because maybe it’s true. But I can’t admit it. I can’t bear it. My throat burns against the possible truth of it.

“But he didn’t lose you,” she says, closing that final space between us. “I know he sees it that way. But I don’t. He let you go. He got to keep you in another way, a better way for him, but he let this go.” She presses her hand against my chest, right over my heart.

She is so close. So far. She—we—are cataclysmic. We always have been. A world-rending crash of two girls that even nature admires in our willingness to destroy for each other.

“I won’t let you go,” Iris says. “I won’t lose you. And I won’t let you lose me.”

“But I will lose everything,” I say. “Because Raymond will come—”

“—then we fight him,” Iris insists. “You don’t run. You promise me, right here, right now, that if you have to run, you come back for me.”

“Iris …”

“Promise me,” she says. “Or I’ll chase after you.”

I take in a deep breath. I take in the real truth.

I can’t leave her. Or lose her.

So that means it’s time to show her.

“Come here.” I hold out my hand.

Her brows knit together, but she takes it. Her hand slides into mine and she squeezes my fingers like she knows I need that burst of strength.

I pull her out of the storage unit and over to my car. I pop the trunk with my free hand and push it open.

Inside are four duffel bags.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“Lee made twelve escape plans. But I made one of my own. This is mine. Ours.” I gesture to the bags. “This is Plan 13.”

She looks at me, and when her eyes well with tears, I can’t tell if it’s good or bad for a second, and then she’s squeaking out, “You made an escape plan for us?”

“More than anything, I want to keep you safe,” I say. “I am, like, the most unsafe person ever right now for you, Iris—”

“I don’t care. Shut up. Come here.”

She kisses me, yanks me to her, and I ignore my rule about not messing with her hair because I grab her back, my fingers buried in her brush-out.

“I love you,” she whispers against my lips. “More than anything. So promise me, if you have to run, you’ll come back to me.”

I lean my forehead against hers, running my fingers down her arms, our fingers twining together.

“I promise,” I whisper.

Maybe it’s a death sentence.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s a beginning.

Of our life.

Day Two

25 miles in, 30 to go

After the robbery, I started dreaming about them again.

It’s not that I thought I’d left them behind: the girls from before. But the dreams …

I thought I’d left behind the nightmares of blond hair between her fingers, the smell of hairspray, the tightness of braids pinned to my head, her voice behind me. Ashley, your name is Ashley. Katie, your name is Katie. Samantha, your name is Samantha. Rebecca, your name is Rebecca.

I blink up at the ceiling of our tent in the darkness, Abby’s voice echoing.

I check my watch. 2:00 a.m.

We’ve done twenty-five miles. I need to get back to sleep. We were up at five this morning to start by six. My thighs and shoulders ache from carrying the pack for so long. I shift, trying to get comfortable.

Iris snores softly next to me, our sleeping bags zipped together, her leg slid neatly between my thighs. One of my arms is slung over her waist, and I cuddle closer to her like it’ll chase the dreams away.

But you can’t chase those kind of nightmares away. Because they’re memories more than they’re dreams.

I wake up every few hours through the night now, sweating through my clothes, scream-strangled in my chest.

It never gets to my throat. It wouldn’t dare reach my lips.

I know when to be quiet.

I know when to tuck the trauma away.

Compartmentalization. Margaret’s been trying really hard to get me to talk about it. That’s what a good therapist does.

Margaret’s worried about me. I can tell. The bank robbery was a whole ripple neither of us predicted. It brought shit up.

Shit I thought I’d dealt with.

Shit I had to go deal with.

Shit I’m still dealing with.

When I told Margaret I went to see Abby, she told me it was brave. I told her declarations of war rarely were.

War is all about fear when it comes down to it, right?

Fear of change. Fear of the other. Fear of invasion. Fear of things staying the same.

It’s all about being scared and lashing out. Or being scared and forcing change.

I am scared every single second of the day. A constant hum in the back of my head that turns to a roar when a car backfires or a glass gets dropped or I catch sight of a man who looks enough like Raymond for my stomach to drop, because he’s here, he’s come, run, run, run.

“Sweetheart.”

My head turns to the side. Iris watches me, wide awake, and I don’t know how long she’s been, and it should make my skin crawl, but it’s her. She is the only person who understands right now. My eyes prick and burn.

“Oh, Nora,” Iris says, and I bury my head in her neck and hold her tight, the two-sleeping-bags-turned-one rustling around us.

She holds me like we’re barreling off a cliff.

She doesn’t tell me it’ll be okay.

Iris doesn’t like to lie.

It makes what I’m doing even more cruel.

Nine months ago

On Wes’s eighteenth birthday, we both wake up early. We don’t talk about it as we eat breakfast or when we get in the truck and drive over to his house. Lee got us boxes. He grabs them and I get the tape and box cutters, and for the last time, we walk inside his house that was never a home.

His mother cries in the kitchen. She tries to hide it, wipes her tears away before we enter. Offers me sweet tea and tries to pretend this is normal, that her son who has already barely lived with her for years is getting what remains of his things and then he’ll be gone for good. No more faking. No more careful schedule and plans. God, there were so many things I schemed to keep him out of this house, and now what’s left is freedom. It seems incredible we’re finally here.

The mayor is in his office. I can see the light under his door when I make sure to pass it, but I don’t need that to know he’s here. I can feel it; that oppressive choke in the air, that pull in my gut that whispers if you had used that butcher knife the way you were taught.

Wes and I stand in his room together and he doesn’t move for long moments, looking at the bed he hasn’t slept in for weeks and the empty shelves because he took his favorite books to our house years ago, his hiking and nature books mingled with Lee’s worn sci-fi paperbacks and my growing collection of biographies and memoirs. You can still tell what belongs to who, but I like that they’re all mixed up on the shelves in the living room.

“You okay?” I ask, because he’s doing that thing he does sometimes, where he cups his shoulder, his arm crossed against his chest as he grinds his palm into the scar that rests under the fabric. It’s the scar he can reach; the others on his back are harder to touch.

He nods. “We should get to work. The sooner we’re out of here the better.”

“I’ve got the tape dispenser, and I know how to use it,” I say, holding it out like a laser gun. I resist making pew-pew noises because I’m afraid he won’t smile if I do.

It’s hard to make him smile in this house. But at least he’s leaving it for good.

“Do you think he’s gonna cave on signing the stuff you need for college?” I ask Wes as we throw his stuff into boxes. He’s not being careful about it, which is out of character of him. But I guess all the stuff that really means anything was brought home with us a long time ago.

This is the extra. The final emptying of a life that he endured. Maybe I should suggest a ritual burning of the stuff he doesn’t want. Iris would get very into the arranging of such a bonfire.

It might be good for all of us to burn some things away.

“He’s not gonna cave,” Wes says. “He won’t pay for anything. He won’t let me have the inheritance my grandpa left me early. And he won’t sign the FAFSA papers declaring his income, so I can’t really do anything but wait. And she won’t go against him. I can’t ask that of her.”

He doesn’t say that’ll risk her, but I hear it. I think it, too. I made him my family and I put him first because no one else would in his own, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have sympathy for Mrs. Prentiss. That I don’t worry about her, too, alone in this house with her husband.

“There’s gotta be another way to get you considered an independent student. A lawyer to argue your case or something. If they won’t help you or sign the documents declaring their income, why should it count?”

“I put in the appeal form. If I don’t get it, I gotta wait until I’m twenty-four and their income doesn’t matter. Then I’ll get the financial aid I need and go to school.”

“You shouldn’t have to wait six years because your dad’s an abusive asshole.”

“Maybe I’ll get the appeal,” he says. “Let’s take these down to the truck, okay? I want to get out of here.”

We cart the boxes down to the truck, and on the final trip Wes goes into the kitchen to talk to his mom, and I go upstairs to get my bag and the tape and box cutters. I find myself lingering outside the door that I know houses their bedroom.

Okay, I don’t find myself there. I go there. I go right inside and into the closet.

They’re right there in the precisely organized hangers. The mayor’s belts. Six of them on a special hanger with hooks.

I slice the leather into bits with the box cutter and leave the pieces lying there. I’m petty enough to give them the finger before I leave and walk down the stairs. I hover awkwardly near the kitchen but not really in view of it, because I hear him talking to her and I don’t want to interrupt.

“… you can call me any time,” he tells her. “If anything happens—”

“Honey, you don’t need to worry,” Mrs. Prentiss says. “But we need to talk about college. If you’d apologize to your father, everything can go as planned. You need to find a more practical major and then—”

“Mom,” he says softly, and I have to lean against the wall and breathe because it hurts to hear his voice go low with that much hurt. “Remember you can call me whenever you need me. I’ll come get you. No matter where I am.”

The laugh she gives, it’s shaky and knowing and just as hurt, because the truth and his worry, those are the most painful.

“Don’t act like that. I don’t need any kind of … help. You’re my child.”

“I was,” he says, and then he continues, “but I grew up a long time ago.”

There’s no stifling her sob. I manage to breathe through the burning in my eyes, though I want to cry for a whole other reason.

“We’ll get lunch on Sunday, okay?” He doesn’t wait for her answer—she’s still crying as he walks out of the kitchen and sees me there.

I lift my hand in silent greeting, and then I kind of hold it out because I don’t know what else to do. He takes it and I squeeze his fingers and then I let go, and my arm goes around his shoulders instead, and we walk out of there, out of that nightmare that was his childhood, and we’re side by side, taking each other’s weight like we always have.

He stares out the window as we drive home. I almost tell him about the belts, but I don’t know if it’ll make him laugh or bring back bad memories, so I don’t say anything. I think about belts and fire pokers and my crap skill with Steri-Strips and scars in the shapes of boot heels and belt buckles. There are so many terrible things that bond us. But there is so much good, too. Iris likes to remind me of that. You get too dark, sweetheart, she’ll say, and then she combs her fingers through my bangs and fluffs them, and I can’t help but smile each time.

I wish I could be like that for Wes. Sometimes I think I achieve it, but Iris is always better at it with both of us. The fire to our gloomy smoke.

“Today sucked,” I say finally, because I worry if I don’t acknowledge it, he might think I don’t care.

He sighs, and I can’t tell if it’s relief because I stated the elephant in the truck or if I’m being annoying, but then he says, “This whole week sucked. Did I tell you Turbo got adopted?”

“That’s good, right?”

“Yes. Of course. She’s been with the rescue for so long. I guess I was selfishly hoping she’d stay with her foster family until I got my own place and could adopt her myself.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, turning into our driveway.

“She’s such a smart dog,” he says. “I know you’re not supposed to get attached in rescue, but she’s special. She loved training with me. I’m gonna miss her.”

I pull up to the house, turning the truck off. “Actually, I don’t think you are.”

“What?”

I point to the backyard, where Lee and Iris are running around with Turbo.

“We knew this day was gonna be bad,” I say. “Lee paid the adoption fee and for a year of pet insurance. Iris got her the entire dog toy aisle, it feels like, and an entire rainbow of dog bandannas. And I’ve got her first year’s food and co-pays covered.”

“She’s mine?” he asks, staring at Turbo frolicking back and forth as Iris throws her ball. “I get to keep her?”

“She was always yours,” I say. “She’s home. And so are you.”

“Fuck,” he says, and then I’m saying, “Oh, shit, Wes,” because he’s crying and I didn’t mean to make him cry. I just wanted him to be happy for a minute or two on this shitty, shitty birthday.

“I’m okay,” he insists, but then he dissolves more, and I unbuckle my seat belt and lean over so I can hug him.

It’s like the minute I touch him, he can finally say it. Voice the most hidden fear.

“What if he hurts my mom?” he whispers against my shoulder. “What if, now there’s no risk of me coming home and catching him, he turns on her?”

My fingers tighten in his shirt. I pull back so my eyes meet his. And it comes out so easy because it is easy. It is that simple.

“You say the word and I destroy him,” I say, and I let him hear the promise in my voice.

I let him know the truth of me.

And because he loves his mother that much, he doesn’t shy away from it.

He just looks relieved he has me as a weapon.

Day Three

40 miles in, 15 miles to go

“Here, let me help,” I say, when I notice Amanda struggling to stake the tent down. Her hands are shaking with the strain.

“Thanks,” she says, handing me the log she’s using as a mallet. “I’m not great at this.”

“You’ll notice Iris and Wes cooked dinner, not me,” I say, and she laughs.

“That bad?”

“We’d be eating half-raw chili if it were up to me.” I drive the final stake into the dirt with the log and toss it to the side. Turbo chases after it, trying to drag it back to me like we’re playing fetch.

“It’s day three,” Amanda says.

“I know. We’re making good time. Hey, wasn’t there a red tab on your zipper flap when we broke it down? Or am I remembering wrong?”

“No, no tab,” she says. “Just the zippers.”

She opens her mouth to say something else, but Iris interrupts us.

“Almost done with the bear bag,” she calls. “Did everyone give me their trash?”

“I’ve got this.” Wes holds out the half-filled Ziploc of Turbo’s food, and she takes it, stuffing it into the bag we store all the food and trash in and hang up each night.

“Anyone else?”

“I’m good.”

“Me too,” Amanda adds, shaking her hands free of dirt now that the tent’s staked. Turbo clocks her movement and lets out an excited bark and spins in a circle, and then another, and another.

“Whoa, girl,” Amanda says. “You chasing your tail?”

“She’s dancing,” Iris tells her. “You shook your hands.”

“What?”

“Look, Turbo!” Turbo’s attention turns to Iris, who shakes her hands around.

Turbo immediately starts doing her funny circle dance.

“Wes, you trained the dog to dance?” Amanda asks, as Turbo prances over to Iris and sits down in front of her, waiting for praise.

“I think Iris taught her that one,” Wes says.

“She knows all sorts of commands. Good girl,” Iris says, making a clicking sound with her tongue as she slips Turbo a piece of jerky.

“She is so smart, she doesn’t even need verbal commands,” Amanda marvels, coming over to sit down on the trio of logs we’ve dragged into a triangle to sit on. “What is Turbo gonna do when you’re in a dorm in Davis?” she asks. “Is Lee keeping her in Clear Creek?”

“Davis?” I echo as I sit down on my own log, just as Wes says, “I’ll figure it out.”

“Wait, who’s gonna be in a dorm in Davis?” Iris asks, looking up from tying up the bear bag.

“Wes,” Amanda says, and now we’re both staring at him and her, and he’s not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Because he’s going to college there?”

“Wait, they changed their mind about the appeal?” Iris asks excitedly.

“What appeal?” Amanda asks.

Iris’s mouth snaps shut because Wes finally stops staring at the ground like it’s the most interesting thing ever and meets her eyes, all Iris, please, and her cheeks turn bright red.

“You know what!” she says, and I can practically see the exclamation point in her expression. “I’m gonna go hang the bear bag. Nora! Why don’t you come with me? I need help with the knots.”

“But my knots suck.”

“Nora,” Iris says, and she mouths The Edicts at me, completely not subtly, but Amanda’s only got eyes for Wes because we accidentally put him the dog house.

If he needs me to lie to his girlfriend, he’s gotta tell me the lies so I can keep ahead of them! That’s the first rule of sneakiness: inform the wing-woman!

Wes really would make a terrible con artist.

“Okay, I’m coming,” I say, stepping over the logs so I can get to Iris.

“No,” Amanda says, and she stands and actually holds her hand out at us, like she’s the emotional crossing guard and we’re toddlers. “What’s going on?”

“Oh my God,” Iris mutters under her breath, so soft I think I’m the only one who hears it.

“We really should leave you two alone to talk,” I say, but they both completely ignore me and she’s still got her hand up. What’s she gonna do if I move? Get into a slap fight with me or something?

“It’s not a big deal,” Wes says slowly, and at first I think he’s being dismissive, and then I see how his hand comes up to rub over the knob of his shoulder and stays there. I know that his palm is resting over one of the gnarliest of his scars. His chest’s rising and falling—too fast. “I just can’t go to Davis next year.”

“What?” She lets out one of those horrible laughs that’s stripped of all humor and is all disbelief and shock. “We had plans. Why does everyone keep secrets from me?”

Apparently because Wes has gotten to witness some of my excruciating moments with Iris, now I have to witness his with Amanda. This is the problem with being best friends with your ex.

“I’m not keeping anything secret. I did get accepted.”

“Okay? Then what?”

“It didn’t work out,” Wes says. “I’ve gotta wait a few years before I go to school.”

“Why?”

“It’s what needs to happen.”

“But you had a whole plan. We had a plan. We talked about it. I hate secrets, Wes. And you told me you did, too.” Her voice trembles, and I wonder if she’s regretting insisting Iris and I stand here and witness this, because however painful this is for me, it must be, like, lose-a-toenail-by-stubbing-it terrible for her.

“I’m not trying to keep stuff from you. I was really hoping it would work out, and I just found out it won’t. I wanted talk to you about it after we got back from the trip.”

His fingers begin to drum over the scar on his shoulder. A compulsive movement that’s trying to self-soothe but seemingly fails because Turbo begins to whine next to him like she can sense his rising heartbeat. She pushes her nose against his leg, leaving a damp spot because she keeps doing it as he gets paler by the second.

Shit, he’s gonna have a panic attack.

“Hey,” I say, and Amanda whirls around.

“Stay out of this, Nora.”

“Nope,” I say, trying to aim for cheerful as Iris moves toward Wes in concern. She knows the signs, too. She’s gotten the special pleasure of dealing with both of our panic attacks. One memorable time, it was both of us at the same time. I accidentally set him off with mine. It was a fucking mess.

Has Amanda seen one of his attacks yet? Does she know what to look for? How to deal with it?

Or is this another thing he’s been hiding from her? My mind ticks through the possibilities and lands on hiding.

“Come with me,” I tell Amanda. I grab her arm and tug.

“Don’t manhandle me!”

“Come on, then. We need to hang up the bear bag, and Wes looks like he’s gonna pass out. Did you have enough water today?” I ask him, even though I know what this actually is.

“You’re dehydrated. I’ve got liquid IV right here,” Iris says, rummaging in her pockets. “You two go. I’m not really up for hanging the bag anyway.”

“Fine,” Amanda says.

Amanda stalks off, only stopping to grab the bear bag. I nod to Iris and she nods back. We don’t have to talk. We know.

That’s the thing about having a partner. I was born to be one. And I didn’t have one for so long, because Lee is my sister first and I thank everything for that.

But I had missed it. Being understood. Being known. Being perfectly in sync, no words, no need. Just each other and an unspoken plan.

Iris doesn’t get panic attacks. She dwells in a different way. Sometimes when she doesn’t answer her texts, I’ll go to the barn where she saved me and I’ll find her in the hayloft, staring down at the spot where she lit Duane Collins on fire. We never talk; we sit and we hold hands, and I don’t know if her coming there is about proving a point, that she can be there and not spiral, or if it’s about reminding herself that her cool head prevailed.

I hear Iris say, “I’m not going anywhere, Wes,” in a calm voice as I follow Amanda.

We walk in silence, every step of distance a bit of easy breathing.

“That’s a decent tree,” I finally say, after we’ve walked for a good five minutes, pointing to an oak tree ahead. The branches are low enough to sling the bag up on, but high enough to keep the food from the bears.

Amanda stands under the branch and throws up the rope attached to the bear bag. But after three tries, the rope keeps missing the branch.

She lets out a frustrated huff. “Are you going to help me?”

“We should chill for a second,” I suggest.

She glares at me. “I am not in the chilling mood.” She folds her arms. “I never should’ve agreed to this. I should’ve—”

“Come on now, we’re having a good trip.”

But she’s shaking her head and staring up at the sky, her chin trembling. “You three …” she says, and I hate how much it sounds like a condemnation. “This entire thing … I think I’m going crazy.”

“Well, you can’t,” I say.

She makes a face and hides it badly.

“We’re in the woods, remember?” I tell her. “It’s dangerous out here. You’ve gotta keep your head. Otherwise you might fall off a cliff or something.”

“Funny.”

I walk past her to grab the bear bag.

“My friends think he’s still in love with you.”

“Your friends are dumb. And that’s not what you’re upset about.” I throw the rope over a decently high branch and start to pull. I’m almost positive he’s in love with her. If we weren’t in this situation right now, I’d be very happy for both of them. But instead I’m getting dagger eyes from her and getting questioned like I’ve done a crime, and this time I actually haven’t.

“I know they’re wrong. It’s worse than that.”

I stay silent, because what the hell would be worse than that?

“How do you do it?”

“What?” I look over my shoulder at her.

“He’s loyal to you. So is Iris. How do you do that, get people to … it’s just so …” She trails off, pulling her arms in, hugging herself. “God, I should’ve never come on this trip, what was I thinking?” she mutters. “I’m gonna lose everything.”

I’m starting to think Amanda is as big of a mess as the three of us are. Cause Wes is a fucking mess. So am I. So is Iris. None of us are hiding it very well. And neither is Amanda.

It’s kind of a recipe for an emotional disaster.

We were supposed to decompress on this trip. It was supposed to be the three of us.

I yank the rope to hoist the bag up high, anchoring the other end to a nearby pine. Acutely aware she’s watching my every move, I check the knot and keep my back to her, trying to breathe.

I can’t be having my own panic attack while Wes is coming down from his.

“You’re not losing anything or anyone. It’s a few more days,” I tell her. “And then you never have to talk to me again if you don’t want to, okay?”

“Okay,” she says.

And then she turns around and leaves me standing there, the bear bag dangling over my head, and I’m alone.

“Fuck,” I say to the pine tree, because that could’ve gone a lot better.

Then I remind myself that it could be a lot worse, forgetting the crucial rule when thinking something like that.

It’s fucking with fate.

Day Four

50 miles in, 5 miles to go

It is Awkward with a capital A the next day as we march through this incredibly pretty meadow in silence. Actually, it’s Awkward the night before, too. Because I made the mistake of pitching our tent before Wes and Amanda’s argument, so it’s way too close to theirs, but instead of overhearing them whisper-fight all night, it’s worse: total and utter silence.

The silent treatment is brutal. Iris and I have an agreement: we don’t do that shit. I also can’t really blame Amanda. I’d also be chewing my words until I could figure out the right ones.

But breakfast is terrible because of the silence, and by the time we’re packed up and hiking, I’m tempted to start signaling SOS to Iris with my crow call.

Lunch is mercifully eaten on the go, so there’s at least an excuse for the quiet. But the rest of the day is Amanda concentrating on the trees, jumping at every sound that isn’t a voice, like the silence is spooking her instead of making her feel better.

“We should find a place to set up camp,” Iris calls ahead to Wes as she checks her watch. “We’ll need to cross the creek in the morning, and it might take a while to find a spot shallow enough.”

“Okay.”

They’re getting faster at finding the perfect camping spot; it only takes fifteen minutes this time, instead of an hour.

“We need to refill the water,” Amanda says suddenly, and it’s the first thing she’s said since Here when she handed me the bag of jerky at lunch. “How far is the creek?”

“About fifteen minutes, maybe?” Iris says. “I’ll come with, okay?”

Amanda opens her mouth—probably to protest—but then she nods. “Sure.”

“We’ll get everything prepped for bed and dinner,” I say as they gather up the water bottles, the two bladders, and the filters. It takes a few minutes before they head off, and I wait until I’m sure they’re out of earshot.

“Now who’s keeping secrets?!” I demand instantly, turning on him.

“Don’t start,” he says. “She’s already mad enough at me.”

“Because you didn’t tell her something really important!”

“Until my appeal was rejected, I really thought I was gonna figure something out,” he says. “It was wishful thinking and it was stupid, but I didn’t want to tell her until I knew for sure.”

His eyes are dark blue with misery. He looks sadder than Turbo does when she can’t catch the squirrel who’s her number-one enemy in the yard.

“I don’t know how to tell her,” he says. “How do you explain to someone who loves the hell out of her father that yours is going out of his way to make sure he’s fucking your future up for years?”

“I don’t know,” I say, because I haven’t had to do that. I’ve been blessed with three people who understand that part of me.

“I was going to tell her at the end of this trip. So we could at least have a good summer together before she went off and had her life and eventually met a new guy while I rotted here.”

“Okay,” I say. “First, don’t ever talk about yourself like that again. You won’t rot. Fuck you very much. As if me and Lee would ever let you rot. As if Iris would!”

“I love you guys, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard, Nora.”

I bite the inside of my lip, wishing like hell I hadn’t ditched my rubber bands. I’d told myself I was beyond snapping them. Maybe I’m not.

“I could fix this,” I say, and my heart rattles inside my rib cage like an empty warning. Sometimes I can’t listen. “I told you before I’d pay for your college. So let me.”

He’s shaking his head as soon as I say the word pay.

“Don’t do this again,”

“It’s stupid,” I burst out. “You’re not helping anyone by not taking it. You’re, in fact, hurting yourself and Amanda. So … take it, okay?”

“And where did the money come from, Nora?” He stares me down because he knows. He wants me to say it.

“You know where it came from.”

“And that’s why it’s not mine to use.”

“Well, it was mine to steal.”

His chest rises and falls in a quick, surprised breath.

“What?” I ask. “Did you expect me to keep dancing around it? Of course I robbed the bank.”

“Nora, that’s crazy.”

I shrug. “I found the safety-deposit keys in the manager’s office. He was hiding them. The old guy who owned the box? He died a few months before the robbery. No heirs. No family. I checked, I’m not awful. But the bank manager visited him at his nursing home each week. I figure he took the deposit keys off the old guy at some point, and then when he died the manager decided to keep the box himself. Then he bragged about it to the wrong people.”

“And boom, bank robbery,” Wes says. “See where wanting to steal money gets you?”

“It could get you to college,” I insist. “It could do some good, instead of sitting in a box, doing nothing for anyone.”

I step forward. I want to be closer when I deliver the final blow. More effective that way. And I need to affect him. I need him to have a good life.

“You think you’ll get your mom out if you’re wasting half of your twenties working shitty jobs in Clear Creek?”

His jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

“Then you’ll finally go to school. You’ll be in your thirties before you finish and start your career. That’s more years away, more years for him to get his hands on all that money your grandfather left your mom. If he takes her money, you know that’s another door shut for her.”

“This is fucking low, Nora.”

It’s, like, journey-to-the-center-of-the-earth low, yet I push on.

“You know as well as I do. Your mom doesn’t just need to want out. She needs to be able to see a way out.”

“You’re being a bully,” he says.

He’s right. But I push forward anyway.

“Whatever it takes.”

He shakes his head and calls for Turbo and grabs the bear bag, stalking off to stake out the best place to hang it.

Whatever it takes.

Day Four

50 miles in, 5 to go

I don’t expect the girls to come back from the creek talking, but that’s exactly what happens. Iris’s voice breaks through my sulky brooding alone and is joined by the surprising sound of Amanda’s laughter.

When they come into view, I see Amanda’s soaking wet. There’s a clump of algae stuck to one of her French braids.

“What happened?” I ask. Did Iris push her in or something? No. She wouldn’t. Would she? “Are you okay, Amanda?”

“There was a mishap,” Iris says. “No big deal.”

“Totally worth it to see that mine shaft,” Amanda adds, grinning as she wrings water out of her hair.

“A mine shaft?”

“Remember I told you that the historical society has old maps that have all the old mining spots on them? I thought it’d be cool to see if we could find it,” Iris says.

Amanda strips off her sun-shirt, hanging it over a branch.

“Do you want my extra pair of leggings until yours are dry?” Iris asks. She mouths Be nice at me as she moves toward her backpack.

“I can wrap myself in my sleeping bag until my clothes dry,” Amanda says.

“Nonsense, then you’re basically eating dinner in a nylon cocoon,” Iris says. “Here, I’ve got my clothes right on top.” She pulls out the leggings and tosses them to Amanda.

“You can use my flannel,” I say, pointing to where I’ve hung it in the entrance of our tent.

She glances at it and, to her credit, she doesn’t make a face. “Thanks,” she says as she grabs the shirt. She ducks inside her tent to change, and Iris sidles over to me.

“Where’s Wes?” she asks in a low voice. “I think I did some damage control for him.”

“I did the opposite,” I say. “We kind of had a fight.”

“Nora! What about?”

“College. His not going. You know how ridiculous it is, that he’s not going to college?”

“Of course it is, but there’s nothing you can do.”

“Oh, there’s a ton I can do. Which is why he’s mad at me. But he won’t let me help him. Which is why I’m mad at him. So I guess we’re even.” I suddenly have a lot in common with Amanda.

Iris rolls her eyes. “You two are infantile. There are much more important things to worry about. So stop it.”

If only it were that easy.

I think everyone but Iris goes to bed upset. Poor Iris, she tries to make small talk over dinner about finding the old mine shaft, but it doesn’t really work. We all eat and clean up as fast as possible, tucking ourselves into our tents a lot earlier than usual. Wes won’t look at me. Amanda’s swimming in my flannel, but I don’t ask for it back, because I don’t want to get into another thing.

I fall asleep out of sheer spite. Fast and harder than usual. Sometimes it feels like all the girls are frozen in place until the second my eyes droop and fall. Then they converge upon my sleeping mind, their rusty limbs stretching as they speak in riddles. It’s fucking annoying. I am them. I should be able to understand them.

But there are some things you hide even from yourself. Minds play tricks on their hosts. That’s why there’s a whole saying about it.

The girls sit in a circle, mirrors of the same face under different hair. Sweet crooked braids down Rebecca’s back. A too-tight Alice band tucks Samantha’s fall of hair behind her ears. Half-up and half-down blond curls over the shoulders of Haley’s modest dress. Katie’s ponytail swishes behind her like a warning flag. Ashley’s milkmaid braids wind tight and tighter around her head.

Their hands work through one another’s hair. Weaving and styling as I stand in the center of the circle they make, trapped by my own selves.

Ashley finishes Rebecca’s hair and she gets up, braids bouncing with each skipping step she takes around the circle.

Ashley pats the empty space in front of her.

The girls beckon. Their hands stretch toward me. Their voices fill the air.

Your turn, Nora.

I jerk awake, my heart already thumping like my body knows it needs to run. It takes a second for me to catch up. I lie there in the tent, trying to place it: the thing that woke me.

A low whine. Scrabbling outside our tent. The clink of her tag against her collar in the breeze.

Turbo.

My breath sharpens. How did she get out?

Boots on. Laces double-knotted. Headlamp secure. Machete strapped to my leg.

Iris is fast asleep in her sleeping bag as I unzip our tent, pushing myself out into the night. Turbo does her happy circle dance when she sees me, before sticking to my side.

“Good girl,” I whisper. I shine the light near the other tent.

My stomach flips. Every hair on my arms rises.

It’s open. Half-unzipped flap fluttering in the night-time wind. I grit my teeth, catching my cheek in between the clench as Turbo and I creep forward. My free hand closes around the hilt of my knife as I shine the light into the tent.

Wes rears up, the light hitting him straight in the face. “What the—” He stops himself when he sees it’s me. He looks to his right. The part that’s blocked by the half-zipped tent flap. The expression on his face …

I jerk the tent flap open all the way.

Amanda’s sleeping bag is empty.

“Where is she?”

We say it at the same time. A mutual moment of complete confusion that splits off into two kinds of horror.

“She didn’t wake you up?” I ask as he overlaps with, “You didn’t see her?”

“I wouldn’t have—there’s no way I would’ve slept through—”

He fumbles with the zipper of his sleeping bag, jerking free of it.

He shoves his feet into his boots and I whirl, crossing the space between our tents in five steps. “Iris,” I hiss. She zombie-tilts up, her eyes open, half-buried in her sleeping bag.

“What? I’m awake!”

She takes one look at me.

“I’m awake,” she says again, scrambling out of her bag.

“Amanda’s not here.”

Iris starts moving faster. She pulls on her boots as she says, “Did she go to the bathroom? She didn’t wake anyone up? We’re supposed to go in pairs.”

“I dunno. Maybe she forgot?”

Wes paces on the edge of the camp, staring into the darkness beyond. “Come on!” he says over his shoulder at us. “We’ve gotta find her. What if she’s hurt? Amanda!”

Quiet. Every sense jangles against his worried shout into the dark.

We need to be quiet.

“Maybe she really had to pee and couldn’t wait to wake someone,” I say.

My mind doesn’t believe it. My heart doesn’t, either. My body is already in Run mode.

I grab my sling pack. Sling it over my shoulder like it says on the can.

His brow is furrowed so deep it’s practically casting shadows. “Where’s the lantern?” he asks. “Amanda!” he calls again.

Iris joins him, the lantern on and clutched in her hands.

Amanda didn’t even take a light. The thought hits me.

It fills me with a special kind of dread.

“Amanda!” Iris calls.

Don’t yell, don’t do it, run, run. My body sings it like someone’s got a gun to my head. But I move forward anyway.

“Come on!” Wes says.

Wes charges forward with the lantern, Turbo trotting by his side. I rush after them, wincing when my boot hits a rock jutting out of the forest floor. Iris follows close behind—we’re a three-point snake of light down the trail, Wes walking too fast for us to move like a cohesive unit.

Shadows stretch around us. My ears strain to hear anything over his thumping feet. He’s crashing through the brush like he’s never moved through it before, and I thought this would be better, but he’s unraveling already.

“Wes! Wait a second!” I try to catch up and run right into him as he comes to a sudden stop. I slam into his shoulders, wincing because he’s like a solid wall.

“What—” I start to say, and then I see it.

My flannel, in the middle of the trail. The one I lent Amanda earlier. My headlamp swings wildly on the yellow fabric.

There’s blood all over it.

“Shit,” I say.

“Oh my God,” Iris breathes behind me. She crowds closer, yanking her Taser out of her jacket.

Wes sucks in a breath. Fills his lungs.

“AMAN—”

I smack my hand over Wes’s mouth. “Quiet,” I hiss. His eyes shine at me as I lower my hand. But he doesn’t start yelling again.

“It’s a bear—”

“It’s not a bear,” I say. “Wes, look. Think.”

His shoulders smooth out. His stance shifts. His head tilts as he scans ahead. Alert. Aware. Waiting.

He’s putting it together, like I did in the first five seconds. There’s no sign of a bear or cougar. The jacket would’ve been ripped up. Not laid neatly in the middle of the trail like bait. There would be drag marks. She would’ve screamed. We would’ve heard her.

It’s not an animal out here with us.

Iris and I move, lining up back-to-back, and I’m impressed with how smooth it is. Practice makes perfect. A 360-degree view. Machete on one side, Taser on the other. Wes in our sights at all times.

Trap, trap, run, it’s a trap.

Turbo lets out a warning yip, her hackles rising as she stares to the right.

I move, forcing Iris to the left, so I’m facing where Turbo’s focused.

“Turbo, shush,” I order. She immediately obeys, but her eyes stay fixed on a spot off-trail.

My bloody flannel’s clutched so tight in Wes’s hands. The lantern swings from Iris’s fingers. It’s too much light. Way too much light.

“Lights out,” I hiss.

I reach up and flip off my headlamp. The lantern gets switched off. We’re plunged in darkness.

Too late.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

Legs moving through the brush.

They’re coming slow. Staggered. How many pairs? I close my eyes, trying to place them. But I’ve always had quicker hands than ears. Wes is the one who can pick out the sounds of the forest—which are normal, which are not.

I lift my head, peering toward the spot where Turbo is fixated, trying to discern the shadows. Is that a tree or a person?

They’re carrying no light. Are they using night-vision goggles?

I could use that. I’d need to cause a flare to white the goggles out. Temporary distraction. Long enough for us to run?

Run where?

Off-trail? Farther into the woods? We’re miles away from any checkpoints or people.

My mind’s trying to move through it, to form some sort of plan, when the sound breaks through the silence.

A whistle. Three descending notes that send chills of recognition down my spine. A mocking, sad trombone of a sound that I know too well. He used to do it to warn me the security team was coming.

My brain tries to reject it. It can’t be. He was supposed to be alligator food. Raymond had sworn it to Abby after what happened under Caleb’s watch. Or rather, what I caused to happen under Caleb’s watch.

My hands lash out, grabbing Wes’s and Iris’s arms. My nails dig in.

“Run,” I command.

But it’s too late.

They’ve zeroed in on us.

They open fire.

Ashley (Sower)

Act One: Sower

The first time Abby ever leaves me on my own is during the honeymoon. We’ve never been apart for more than a few days.

She’s reluctant, but Raymond persuades her, and then they’re off to the Bahamas, and I’m alone-but-not in that McMansion.

Alone-but-not is the name of Raymond’s game. There’s a constant buzz in the house. Housekeepers and cooks, security, and the chosen ones—the men who work on the criminal side of his business. Silent shadows that appear and disappear, grim-faced and watchful.

I’ve spent my life in motel rooms and studio apartments prepping for cons and playing at being real the rest of the time. The marks may have been rich back then, but Raymond is something else. I have no idea what to do in this giant house with this steady stream of people. I have no goal: no score to work toward. This life, my mother seems to think, is the score.

I can’t wrap my head around it.

So I do the thing I’m trained to do: I treat it like another job. I am a criminal surrounded by criminals, after all. I spend my first week before the wedding gathering intel: memorizing faces and names and schedules, exits and hiding places, calculating how many bones I might break if I have to jump out my second-story bedroom window.

By the time they’re gone on their honeymoon, I’ve moved from the basics into the interesting stuff: relationships, quirks, and pressure points.

I’m a ticking time bomb of information, ghosting through the house disguised as a girl, and no one is the wiser because Raymond left me behind like I was actually Ashley. Like I was a regular girl, but he knows better. It’s the first thing he teaches me: Even if you’re known, you will be underestimated.

The more I watch, the more I realize something else important: the staff think my mother is a trophy wife.

Which means the staff think I’m just a girl. One caught in a criminal’s web, sure, but, like, normal.

And that?

That is the kind of window of opportunity that closes fast.

So I get to work.

I make friends with the housekeepers first. They’re nice, so it’s not hard. But I can tell they don’t want me hanging around—it makes them nervous every time one of the security guys comes to check on me when I’ve spent too long downstairs. The housekeepers are the most innocent people in this place. I can’t get them in trouble. But I want them to like me enough to maybe dismiss it when I do something suspicious.

So I turn my attention to the security guys. I spend a day timing them—figuring out how long it takes for them to come running when I disappear off camera. Even the best security has blind spots, and there are a few in this house that I’m positive are there on purpose. Perfect ambush points.

I put them on my mental map, too.

When I disappear it takes three minutes and forty seconds before someone comes searching for me. Add an average of two more minutes to locate me. They’re not very good at stealth, so by the time they find me I’m reading a book or playing with a pack of cards, innocently looking up when they step into view.

Marcus is the head of security. Salt-and-pepper hair with a prominent brow. He has daughters. I know it because of the way he looks at me, with this pity that he can’t seem to hide, but he tries. It’s a dad look. Almost protective. I can use that, if I have to.

Most of Marcus’s guys get annoyed or nod their heads and say, “Sorry, miss.” Before disappearing.

But there’s one. Younger guy. Shock of white-blond hair and blue eyes burning against his tanned skin. Caleb’s a lot younger than his counterparts. Maybe twenty. He doesn’t belong. And the rest of security doesn’t treat him like he does. They’re deferential to him in a way they shouldn’t be—he’s too young for respect in a hierarchy like that.

Which is how I know: this guy is Raymond’s plant.

He’s not security. He’s not staff. He’s next-generation criminal. One of the chosen ones. I’d bet he’s the son of one of Raymond’s men high in the organization.

And he’s been chosen to watch me. My own personal shadow.

But I’m not supposed to know. Because Ashley is normal, and normal girls don’t need shadows.

He watches me. Too close. Like he’s been given a mission, and it’s to pick me apart to prove himself.

I don’t like it. I only have one more week alone in the house, one more week of figuring out who to con, who to blackmail and how. He’s in my way.

I don’t care what Mom says. This is not our life for good.

This is an obvious trap, and she’s stepped into it happily and willingly, lovestruck and idiotic, and I was dragged into it with her. I never said yes.

I’ve never actually said yes to anything, and I don’t know how it never bothered me before, but it’s pounding down on me now.

I need some sort of backup plan. An out. Something. Anything to feel better about how stupid she’s being about him.

It takes them over five minutes to find me this time. Marcus is out of breath as he comes running, but Caleb’s at his heels and smirking.

I glance up from my book. “Is there something wrong?”

Marcus turns on his heel and stalks off. My presence—that a child is this close to Raymond’s evil—unsettles him. I can tell. I wonder how I can use it.

I turn the page of my book, concentrating on the words, but when Caleb’s feet don’t move, I decide to push.

“You guys sure do like to come running,” I comment.

“You know, Marcus has better things to do than getting sent on a wild-Ashley chase every few hours.”

I blink innocently at him. “I’m exploring like Raymond told me to.”

I think I know why Raymond chose this man to watch me. I’m supposed to bask in the attention of someone who looks like he belongs in a boy band.

Placing Caleb in my line of sight, like I’ll be distracted by a pretty face, is a misstep on Raymond’s part. But it tells me a lot about how he sees me. How he doesn’t know me at all. And how he doesn’t know Abby at all. He doesn’t see her—our—sophistication. The cleverness. The strategy. The risk. The danger. The violence.

I can use that, too.

And I can use Caleb.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says. “You’re testing your boundaries.” He shoots me a smile that’s supposed to be friendly. Maybe it’s supposed to make a normal girl giggle over the cute boy paying attention to her.

It makes me want to find a pair of knitting needles so I can stab him.

“Raymond’s told me what a smart girl you are. It would be much easier if we could get along,” he says.

I don’t say anything; I focus on my book.

But then he reaches into his pocket and removes a knife. I don’t tense—I refuse to be that obvious—but my eyes fly up. He reaches over to one of the rose bushes, flipping the knife open with such a smooth movement I’m entranced for a moment, and slices a flower free.

“We could be friends,” he says, offering me the rose.

I don’t take it.

“I’d rather have the knife.”

He laughs. A genuine, startled sound. Not uneasy, but pleased at my moxie.

I don’t smile. I don’t need to.

I’ve got him right where I want him.

Day Five. Before Dawn.

Roughly 5 miles from the Fire Tower

What we’re working with: 1 sling pack and its contents, 1 headlamp, 1 lantern, 1 machete, 1 Taser, 1 very angry boy and his dog

Pop, pop, pop.

The bullets spray high above. Too high. The first thing I think is Caleb’s not trying to hit us, he’s trying to scare us, and then my wrists are clamped on either side. Iris and Wes yank me down and we flatten as a unit; I’m sandwiched between them as the familiar terror clangs in my bones. I hit the ground so hard dirt flies in my mouth and I don’t have time to spit it out. Bullets zip over us and Wes is yelling move, and I snap to, I obey for once, because moving sounds like an excellent idea right now.

There’s nothing like belly-crawling through a dark forest with bullets flying. I can’t even picture myself in some sort of training montage, because I’m too terrified because Caleb of all people has shown up. Risen from the freaking not-dead.

He was supposed to be swamp food years ago. Apparently not.

I should be mad right now—not at Raymond, but at myself for being so gullible as to believe he actually killed that guy. But I’m too busy trying to belly-crawl for my life.

“Go, go,” Iris chants in front of me. I want to reassure her, but I’ve got dirt in my mouth and no breath for anything but panting as we scramble like tiny woodland creatures, trying to hide in the underbrush from the big bad wolf.

“Get away from the trail!” Wes whispers as he crawls left, away from the path and the camp. Away from the food and the bear spray and all our stuff and fuck, we are screwed here.

Okay, Nora. Priorities. Survive first. Worry about supplies later. Cart, horse, and all that.

The rapid pop pop of gunfire slowly fades. Laughter in the distance. Another whistle. Words I can’t make out.

It’s a moment of opportunity. The only one we might get.

“Up!” I say, grabbing the nearest wrist. Wes’s. It’s hairier. “Iris!”

“Here.” Her hand closes around my free one.

I drag them behind the nearest tree, flattening against the trunk and peering around the edge, squinting in the dark. The voices get louder. More distinct. I can almost make out words.

I scrabble inside my sling pack, down into the very bottom. My hands close around the handle, and I pull it out. Iris stiffens next to me when she sees the flare gun.

“Are you trying to start a forest fire?” she whispers furiously.

“There’s a big puddle right off the path. If I time it right, I can create a distraction.”

“And then what?”

My stomach twists. The answer isn’t pretty.

“There’s too many of them. At least three. We gotta split up,” I whisper. “Spread them out.”

“No way,” Iris says. “We stick together.”

But Wes shakes his head next to me, flinging sweat everywhere. Turbo is clutched tight to his side, panting her stress as she feeds off ours.

“Nora’s right,” he says. “We’re outgunned. It’s easier to pick us off in a group. Only way is to split, lose them one by one, and meet back up.”

“You don’t have a weapon, Wes,” Iris says. “If we split up—”

“I’ve got Turbo,” he insists.

“You have no light!”

“I’ll be fine.”

She shoves the lantern into his hands. “I’ve got a light on my Taser,” she insists, when he tries to protest.

“We’ll meet back where we’ve hung the food,” I say. “I’ll come from the south. Iris, you head west and then double back. Wes—”

“I’ll head east and do a circle,” he says, catching on to my thinking. “It’ll take the longest.”

“I don’t think—” Iris starts to protest, but her mouth snaps shut.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Methodical footsteps through the brush. Staggered and orderly, no worries about tripping. A voice rings out, so loud he can’t be too far from our hiding spot.

“You can’t hide forever, Ashley.” Caleb’s voice rings out, too loud, too mocking; God, he is way too close. We need to move.

“Everyone know what to do?” I ask.

Wes nods. Iris’s eyes glitter as the moonlight hits them, but she nods, too.

I lean forward and kiss her, a quick slide of lips that’s completely in the just in case we die category, and God, I had hoped we’d ditched this category of kisses after the bank ordeal. But now we’re in the thick of what’s apparently going to be the forest ordeal, so here I am, kissing her like I might never touch her again. I love you. I think it so hard my head hurts.

“On three,” I whisper when I pull away and try to ignore how her eyes are shining now from tears more than fear.

I grip the flare gun with my right hand and hold out three fingers on my left.

Three.

Two.

One.

We split.

Day Five. Before Dawn.

Roughly 5 miles from the Fire Tower

What I’m working with: 1 sling pack and its contents, 1 headlamp, 1 machete, 1 flare gun

For the record, I do not advise shooting off a flare gun in the middle of a forest. It is, in fact, an incredibly stupid thing to do, forest-fire wise, even if you aim it into a puddle.

“Run!” I yell.

Luckily, I do have good aim. The flare hits near someone’s foot—there’s enough shrieking over the spray of light and the hiss of sparks hitting the puddle for me to be sure of that.

I don’t have time to check to see who I hit or who’s down or who might follow me. I just drop the flare gun and head south.

“Get her!” I hear someone—it’s probably Caleb—yelling, and I push my legs harder, so glad that I thought to double-knot my laces before we went looking for Amanda.

Oh fuck, Amanda. Why did they take her? The thought of her hits me because she was temporarily driven out of my mind what with the surviving and everything, and now she’s in the forefront of my brain as I run, and that won’t do.

Surviving first. Guilt later.

I sprint through the forest, making a serpentine trail through the pines as I dodge between them, trying to avoid branches and rocks. The air cools the farther I get, the ground slanting down, and I can smell it: the water’s close. Salt Creek is the next body of water we’re supposed to cross. Iris had called it a river cosplaying as a creek.

I’m about to hit it. And if I hit it at a point that’s too deep to cross, I’m screwed.

The ground gets softer. Wet dirt. And then the ground begins to shift under my feet. I’m near the water. I know if I turn my headlamp on and down, I’ll see rocks instead of dirt or forest floor.

I step forward, pinpointing the rush of water ahead, the trees on the other side of the bank, clustered tight together. The perfect spot to disappear into. If only I can get across. I pull off my headlamp and shove it into my sling pack as my boots hit water. Little splashes. I don’t have time to check the depth. Someone’s thrashing through the brush behind me, not caring how loud he’s being.

Water laps at my ankles.

I grit my teeth and wade in.

Four steps and the creek bed drops sharply under my feet.

Then the current’s got me.

Day Five. Before Dawn.

Roughly 5 miles from the Fire Tower

I run.

I put my all into it, praying every step I don’t trip and fall. I can barely see. I careen down the not-path, no light, no sense, just run.

I don’t look back. I want to, so badly; I want to make sure she got away. Turbo doesn’t move as softly as Wes does through the forest and I can hear her running and then I can’t, so she got away, which means Wes got away.

God, Nora, you better have gotten away. You told me we wouldn’t split up.

I can practically hear her say back, “But I didn’t promise.”

Her and her tricky logistics. It’ll annoy me one day and make me love her the next. Because she may not have promised anything about splitting up, but she has promised to always come back to me. And I believe that. More than anything.

Now I need to make sure I’m alive when she comes back.

I don’t know how long I run before I realize it: no one’s chasing me.

I almost double back once I’m sure. To make sure she got away. That she’s not lying there with a broken neck or—

But I make myself keep going west.

I’d told her I was ready for anything. I’d promised.

I don’t want to break that promise, but, oh God, this is much worse than the bank. I didn’t think anything could get worse than the bank, but I have been forced to stand corrected.

I can’t stop now. I pass the boulder, feet pounding, no bullets flying, no men chasing.

I’m almost there. The big oak’s ahead of me. I can see the white of the food bag hanging on the branch.

For a second, I lean against the tree, trying to catch my breath. As the adrenaline fades, I can feel it; low in my belly and back. The cramping. Dull, but persistent. Which means it’ll go from dull to fuck my life and my body and my goddamn uterus in about two hours.

I planned this entire trip around my period, and now the stress will make me bleed. It’ll be like the bank. I’ll go down first. I’ll be the weak point. The liability.

I press my hand against my stomach, willing it to go away, because, you know, that’s worked, like, never.

The only thing to do is to move through it.

That’s the story of my life. I should get it carved on my gravestone. Here lies Iris Moulton, the only thing to do is move through the pain.

I turn toward the tree trunk and begin to climb.

Day Five. Before Dawn.

Roughly 5 miles north of the Fire Tower

We run. Me and Turbo. Nothing’s ever felt so wrong, leaving the girls behind. Every step makes me feel sicker.

But I force myself to do it. Greater good. I’m a larger target. If they hit anyone, it’ll hopefully be me and not the girls.

It’s a blur, pine needles sliding under my feet, my hand tight around Turbo’s leash as I scan ahead best I can. I can’t turn on the lantern. Head south, at least two miles, then circle east. She’s such a good dog, keeping pace with me, every sense alert as we move, frantic and crashing loudly because if more than one of them follows me, that’s one fewer after the girls.

It’s happened. He’s come for her. I’ve been waiting for it to happen since I was fifteen and I thought …

Fuck, I thought I’d be protecting her, and I’m not protecting anyone. I’m running. I left them. I slept through Amanda—

What the fuck happened to Amanda? Where is she? He had to have taken her—

I nearly clothesline myself on a branch, ducking down at the last second. That small stumble, thinking about Amanda, I’m pretty sure it saves me. Because the tree right ahead explodes, the bullet embedding into the trunk instead of my head.

I dodge to the left, mindless. I go off course as I try to lose them, but the footsteps are coming too fast.

There’s more than one of them.

They chased the larger target. Like I wanted.

I push through sparse trees. They’re getting more spaced out instead of thicker, the ground at an incline, and when Turbo skitters to a stop, I know.

It’s the end of the line.

I’m at the edge of an embankment—steep enough that I can’t climb down without rope. Below it, Salt Creek churns, swollen from last week’s rain.

Over the rush of the water, I can pick out the sounds of moving feet. Smooth, experienced gaits. These two know what they’re doing.

“Go.” I snap my fingers, pointing down to the creek bank. Turbo hesitates. She doesn’t want to leave me. I snap my fingers again. She obeys, scrambling down the embankment, her claws digging into the red dirt.

I wait until Turbo’s a shadow on the bank. They’re getting closer. There’s movement through the sparse line of trees. They’ll be in sight any second.

I have to make sure she’s okay and out of the line of fire. In case this doesn’t work.

Her paws hit the creek bed. She looks up at me like You coming?

“Stay,” I tell her.

And then I jump into the creek, praying it’s deep enough.

Day Five. Before Dawn.

In the Water

What I’m working with: 1 sling pack and its contents, 1 headlamp, 1 machete

I suck in a mouthful of water before I get control of myself. My feet pedal in the rush, trying to seek the bottom as I bob and spin down the creek.

It’s no use: the water’s too deep and the current’s stronger than I anticipated. When I break the surface, pulling hard with my arms, I sputter out the water, coughing and hacking, trying to peer in the dark. Then I’m sucked under again, and I’m fighting to break the surface, breathing my only thought as the water sweeps me away.

It’s a battle to stay afloat, to stay breathing, and I can’t see anything but shadows.

Left or right, choose a damn direction and go. It’s not Abby in my head. Not Lee.

It’s Wes. Of course it’s Wes. He taught me how to camp and hike and build a fire out of basically nothing. He taught me the forest, showed me how to love it, and I will be damned if it’s the thing that kills any of us.

I pull to the right. Pumping my arms sideways against the current, my body battering against it as I fight and fight and …

… promptly slam sideways into a bunch of rocks.

Fuck. I hit them hard. The current propels me into them, my body scrapes against the rock, a horrible painful drag from my hip up to my shoulder. I scream, and luckily it’s mostly garbled by all the water, and I force my hand up, scrabbling for purchase. I heave myself onto the slate formation jutting out of the creek. The water rushes white and bubbly over the slate, wearing the stone into curious grooves that snag against my fingers as I drag myself to safety.

I collapse on the rocks, my cheek pressing against the slate, gasping for lost air and being thankful that hundreds of years ago that volcano erupted forty miles away and the lava-flows created all this, or however volcanoes work. Maybe it spat out the rocks from its bubbling lava maw like spitballs or something. All I really know is the volcano is officially my favorite thing, next to these rocks. Otherwise I’d be drowned right now.

I give myself a minute. Okay, actually, I lie there dazedly, trying to breathe, remind myself I can breathe, and letting reality creep up on me as the chill of my soaked clothes seeps into my skin.

I roll over onto my back. Against my leg something clunks. My knife. Looking down, I realize my leg strap’s totally mangled, the machete dangling by a thread.

I wrench it out of the useless straps, clutching it to my chest. I’m not losing my knife. Not now.

Raymond’s come for me. Finally.

You need a knife when he comes for you.

I stare at the sky. The moon hangs high, half full. It’s just gonna get brighter. It makes it hard to hide.

We’re at the end. No more waiting. No more girls to shed or disappear into.

No running. No hiding.

So it’s time to fight, then.

I take a deep breath. I check the compass on my watch.

And then I push myself off the rocks.

Ashley (Sower. Hunter.)

Act Two: Hunter

I cultivate Caleb like an orchid; people always say orchids are tricky, but all you need to know is how to work with them.

All I need to know is how to work him. And it’s so simple: all he wants is to feel smarter than me.

So I ask him questions. I turn him into my teacher. I let him show me how to use a knife in ways that have nothing to do with butchering meat. At least, not meat you eat. I fall into the role of the student, and it’s a step closer to what I want.

I make mistakes. I let him catch me sneaking out to the beach and in harmless little lies. Lulling him into the kind of security you should never have around me.

I don’t know exactly when or why I might need to use him, but I know I will. I’m not love-drunk like Mom. She doesn’t even blink over Caleb always being there when we go out. When I go to tennis and then the stables, when Raymond stops me from playing tennis. Caleb’s always in the background, watching us, searching for threats like we can’t see them first. Like we aren’t sharks ourselves. I’m living in a reverse world, and Mom never acknowledges it. She falls into the role of helpless like she always belonged there, and it’s crazy-making. Like years of life were gone as soon as he slipped a ring on her finger.

I feel insane a lot that first year. And when I break, it’s spectacular. A shattering of everything I ever knew and thought because all along, my sister was my heartbeat and I just didn’t know.

I didn’t know a lot of things. But once I do … once I understand how the con changed between daughters … once I understand what Abby did to her …

There is no going back. There is only my promise to Abby at the top of those stairs.

I’m going to kill you.

I arm myself. I steal the butcher knife. I find a hidden gun. I unearth my just-in-case box with the burner cell. And I call my sister.

She picks up on the first ring. Amelia—she’s not Lee yet to me—doesn’t make the same mistake twice. She’s not going risk me hanging up like I did in Washington.

She cultivated me, too, you see. She did it to save me, but she knew that I had to choose freedom. I had to come to her. She couldn’t take me like she wanted.

That’s the thing about being abused and brainwashed. About being groomed. About having your entire world since birth on tilted ground. I would’ve run right back to Abby. I did just that in Washington, instead of staying on the phone and letting my sister help me.

But I’m ready now. My sister’s orchid is finally in bloom because I have finally understood that what I’ve been doing this entire time isn’t living; it’s surviving.

My sister lays out the plan so simply. The FBI’s lost four undercover agents trying to infiltrate Raymond’s organization. The last one got in deep. He heard about Raymond’s hard drives. The ones he keeps at home in a safe. But he disappeared before he could figure out where the safe was.

If we get the drives, the FBI will get him and Abby. I’ll be free.

Bug the house. Find the safe. Get the code. Remove the evidence. Get out.

It sounds simple when she breaks it down like that. Except nothing is ever simple—especially when you have a shadow like Caleb.

I need to pick the bugs up. But we can’t do a drop when I go out shopping with Mom—she’d clock my sister in a second. Same goes for the beach. Which leaves the stables. It’s the only place I go without Mom or Raymond.

We make a plan for the day. I’m nervous the entire morning; I barely touch my cereal. Raymond scolds me for it, and I think he’s going for light-hearted, but the bruises on my hip haven’t faded yet and I flinch, which makes him mad and it puts me on edge, jittery as I gather my things for my lessons in the hall.

“You need to be more careful,” says a voice at the end of it.

I look up from checking my bag to make sure my riding clothes are inside. Marcus, the head of security, comes forward, standing in front of me, concern in his face.

“I’m always careful,” I answer, because what’s the use in listening to a man like him, who talks one way and lives another? At least I don’t lie to myself about who I am like he does. “Maybe you should tell your boss to be careful.”

I try to brush past him, but he grabs my arm, right under the elbow.

Before I can wrench away or speak, he’s bending down and hissing, “What’ve you got under the docks?”

I don’t freeze, thank God, though I want to. How did he find out? He followed me? I must’ve gotten too cocky about the security camera’s blind spots. Stupid, stupid girl.

He must’ve changed the camera angle on the stairs leading to the beach. It took me a week to nudge it slowly enough to the right to get out without anyone noticing. And now I’m screwed.

I shrug. “It’s none of your business.”

“Why don’t we go down there and see?”

I roll my eyes. “All you’ll find, Marcus, is a bathing suit in a Ziploc bag.”

“A bathing suit,” he repeats.

“Raymond threw out half of my wardrobe, remember? Stuff I really liked.” I pout. “Excuse me for wanting to keep my one cute bathing suit. I wasn’t gonna wear it when he was at home. I was gonna wear it when he and Mom go on their vacation later this year. Don’t worry.”

“Yet somehow I always find myself worrying when it comes to you.”

“Hey,” Caleb calls from the end of the hall. “Car’s ready, Ashley. You’re gonna be late.”

I look up at Marcus, trying to be as cool and collected as possible. “Go ahead and look, if it makes you feel better,” I say. “I buried it next to the fourth post on the right.”

“Ashley!” Caleb says again, sounding annoyed.

He has no idea how annoyed he’s about to get when it comes to me.

“Coming, Caleb!” I say brightly. “I’ve got nothing to hide,” I add to Marcus in an undertone. “I’d appreciate if you put it back when you’re done gathering evidence on my criminal act of wanting to own a bikini.”

I trot after Caleb obediently. My mind whirs. There is a bathing suit buried under the dock. An easy decoy. The lunchbox holding my burner phone and my weapons is buried much farther back. He probably won’t find it.

Probably.

But Marcus has suddenly proved to me that he’s much more dangerous than I thought. I’ve been focused on Caleb—that’s a mistake. I should’ve been more aware of other threats.

I have to do something, and fast. I don’t know what to latch onto. I want to ask my sister, but if we nail this drop, I’ll see her in passing; we won’t be able to talk a lot, and I’m not sure I can wait.

What if he digs farther under the docks? What if he’s smarter than I thought?

I have one shot to get out. If I don’t do this right, I won’t be totally free.

“What was that about?” Caleb asks me as we get into the SUV and head out of the driveway, onto the street.

“Huh?” I ask, staring out the window.

“Marcus? What did he say to you?”

It’s like fireworks in my brain, how the sparks snap into a clear shape all of a sudden in the sky. Marcus doesn’t like having Caleb forced on his team when he didn’t pay his dues. And Caleb thinks Marcus is a wimp. Well, he used another word.

I know exactly what to do. I am my mother’s daughter, after all.

“Oh, I was just telling him about some of the spots the cameras don’t seem to be pointed at,” I say innocently.

“Holes in the security? At the house?”

“There’s a few I noticed. Like the one near the back fence. If you walk north and stick to the fence line, you can get all the way to the pool without being picked up by the cameras.”

“Hm,” he says as we get on the highway. The windows are so tinted I can barely see, but I keep my eyes fixed out of them. I can feel how close he’s watching me. I pretend to be oblivious. “Are you taking an interest in security now?”

“Well, I’m better than you with the knives now, so I should broaden my education.”

He laughs. “You’re a brat. You better not tell your father about that.”

“Our secret,” I promise, almost sing-songing it, and he’s content. Smug in the idea that he’s long broken through to me. He turns his attention to the highway and our driver, and I try to breathe through my rat-tat-tat heartbeat as I line up my slingshot in my mind.

Two birds, one stone.

Watch me take them down.

Day Five. Before Dawn.

Roughly 5 miles north of the Fire Tower

What I’m working with: 1 sling pack and its contents, 1 headlamp, 1 machete

My ribs ache in that might-be-broken way as I stumble up the creek bank. If I follow the creek upstream and then take a right back into the forest, I should hit the tree where we’ve hung our food. I check my watch. I was floating for five minutes, maybe longer. I can’t do the math in my head, of how much faster the water moved me than my feet. Iris could. But I’m focused on squelching my feet up and out of the mud as it thickens along the bank. The practical stuff.

I yank my foot out of the mud violently and wince as the pain lances through my ribs. “They’re just bruised,” I tell myself. If my ribs were broken, it would hurt more. I wouldn’t be able to raise my arms, and then to prove it to myself, I do it. And then I have to bite my tongue really hard because I don’t have Iris’s pain tolerance, and my head spins and dips as dots dance along my vision because that was truly a terrible idea of mine, and I’ve taken on a crime lord with nothing but a lunchbox.

I stagger to a stop, blinking in the dark, trying to breathe through the sharp ache buzzing down my body. My entire left side feels raw from slamming into the rocks, and if my skin’s not actually raw, it will be soon from chafing. Walking miles in wet clothes is such a bad idea. But here I am. Why did I think a backpacking trip would be fun? Oh right, I figured even Raymond wasn’t crazy enough to attack me in a goddamn forest with bears and mountain lions.

I wiggle my foot out of the mud, freeing it with a wince. I keep walking, staying low. Five more minutes at most. Maybe ten. Then we’ll be back together. It’ll be fine. We can do this.

We can survive him.

I try to ignore the voice that whispers Has Amanda survived him? But I can’t push it away.

Is she dead somewhere? Shot and discarded as soon as they realized they’d made a mistake and grabbed the wrong girl? If she hadn’t borrowed my flannel …

All I can do is hope she’s still alive. That he sees her as worth something.

The only way she’ll survive is if she establishes value. Fast. And I don’t know if she’ll be able to do that.

A shadow moves ahead of me on the bank. I freeze, lowering myself to a crouch as it keeps moving, too fast to be a human, too big to be a raccoon.

“Turbo!” I run toward her. She dances away nervously, her leash trailing, and I snatch for it, almost biting it on the bank in the process. My fingers snag around the loop, and I tug her toward me.

She’s trembling, panting with stress, and straining against my hold on the leash. I can’t get close enough to check if she’s okay. She keeps trying to pull me down the bank.

“What’s wrong?” I can’t fight her without losing my footing, so I have to speed up. The leash slackens, and she surges forward. We race down the bank, her gait and vision so much better than mine in the dark. I’m hoping I don’t trip and fall because if I lose her …

She skids to a stop, and I almost crash into her as she lets out a low whine.

“Oh my God.”

The leash drops from my hand.

Wes is half on the bank, half in the water. Face down in the mud.

I crash to my knees next to him, turning him over. He starts coughing immediately, it’s the relief of my life. He’s pale in the half-moonlight and, oh my God, what if I’ve killed him? What if—

He sputters out water, not exactly rearing up but turning weakly to the side as he expels it from his lungs.

“That’s it,” I tell him, cradling his head. “It’s okay.”

He heaves the last of the water, slowly turning to focus on me. “Nora?”

“I got you,” I tell him.

“Iris—” He tilts his head to the side and promptly starts vomiting. That’s when I feel it under my palm. Right near the back of his head: a lump.

Did he hit his head? He’s in no state to follow me.

“Stay here,” I say. “I’ll get Iris.”

“No,” he protests, but when he tries to get to his feet, he staggers. “I gotta come with you.”

“You’ll get me caught. Come on.” I grab his arm, looping it around my neck and rising, pulling him with me. He makes a hiccupping noise that has me sure he’s gonna throw up on me, but thankfully, he doesn’t. “Turbo!”

We have to get off this bank. Fast. The moonlight reflects off the water, bouncing in all directions. They’ll find us here.

We climb the bank and I help him sit, hidden in a clump of manzanita bushes. He’s gonna get ticks, but I’ll pick them off him later. Iris is out there alone.

“I’ll get Iris,” I say. “Stay right here.”

“Nora,” he says, but he swallows convulsively and then starts throwing up again.

“I’ll take Turbo. It’ll be fine.” I grab her leash to make my point. “Be right back.”

I take advantage of the fact that he just almost drowned and his head’s probably all spinny: I’m gone before he can protest, running into the trees.

My girl’s out there. I’ve gotta go get her.

Day Five. Before Dawn.

Roughly 5 miles from the Fire Tower

The higher I get in the tree, the more moonlight spills through the branches. This is helpful, since I don’t want to fall to my death. I scoot along the second-lowest hanging branch where the food bag is tied. I have to flatten myself stomach-down and kind of do this straddle-scoot thing that is completely awkward, but there’s no one to see me, so it doesn’t matter.

I grab the rope and saw it free of the anchoring tree with my knife. I pull it up slowly because it’s heavy. Halfway there, I freeze, the bag almost slipping from my fingers as a light swings wildly in the distance, rapidly moving toward me.

I haul the bag up in one giant heaving motion, tucking it and the extra rope under my body as best I can as I cling to the branch, trying to make myself as small and tree-like as possible.

The light gets closer and closer, and when I see the man carrying it my heart tips over the cliff it’s been poised on, because he’s limping and swearing.

“Hurry up!” he calls behind him. “That crazy girl—I’ve got burns all over my leg.”

I grin. Nora hit that one with the flare gun. Good. I hope his burns rot and he gets gangrene.

“Turn that light off,” a voice orders. A grim voice, authoritative. Deeper than the man who had shouted out Ashley’s name earlier. Is this Raymond? A shiver goes through me, but it dissipates almost instantly, because the burnt man turns back and snarls, “Fuck you.”

Okay, definitely not Raymond. His flunkies wouldn’t say something like that to him.

Is he here, in the woods? Is he out with them, hunting her?

Or is he lying in wait somewhere, so they can deliver her to him?

“Turn the light off,” the man orders again. This time he reaches out and flips the flashlight off. The sudden dark is welcome – I can still make out their shadows. They’re ten feet away from my tree, not directly below me, but close. I’m positive my heart’s beating so loud they’ll hear it.

I don’t know what to do. Nora would know. Wes would attack and he might win, even though the grim-voiced guy is scary big. Like body-building-I-can-rip-a-log-in-half-with-my-hands strong.

But I’m stuck. If I keep hiding, maybe they’ll move on.

“I need to get back to camp,” the burnt man whines. “My leg—”

“Shut up,” Grim Voice says. “I need to find the girl. We’re not going back.”

“You know Caleb’s gonna be the one that finds her. He’ll get the prize.”

Prize? I hug the branch tighter, straining my ears to catch the rest of the conversation.

“Just because you’re a lazy fucker doesn’t mean I have to be,” Grim Voice says. “If you don’t keep up, I’ll leave you behind for her to find.”

“If that little bitch finds me, I’m gonna end her,” the burnt one gripes. He leans against a tree near mine, fussing with his pant leg. I can’t see how bad the burns are, but I hope they’re painful. I hope they start festering and maggots infest them.

Grim Voice snorts. “You weren’t around when that girl was,” he says. “You’ve got no fucking clue, and you’re still not getting one, after she’s blasted a damn hole in your leg with a fireball. She’ll kill you before you even realize she’s there.”

“She’s a girl,” the burnt one sneers.

“You’ve got no fucking clue.” Grim Voice shakes his head.

I focus in on him. He’s doing a slow circle of the area, scanning the trees ahead, steady, almost measured. The line of his shoulders is like a boulder, and his salt-and-pepper hair shines in the moonlight.

This man knew the Nora-that-was. Ashley.

The last girl. That’s how I think of her. I’ve got names for all of them. I’ve organized them in my mind like a deck of cards. The Tarot of Nora. The pieces of her that make her.

This guy, Grim Voice, he’s vigilant. Any second he’s gonna look up and spot me. And then I’m really dead. I have to act.

What do I do? I’m not Nora, no matter how many pickpocketing lessons she gives me. And I’m not Wes; I don’t know the woods and the guns. I am good in a fight, but I can’t punch through a bullet.

My hands wrap around the Taser in my waistband. Could I get close enough before they shoot me? No.

I scoot down so that I’m not right on top of the opening of the food bag. I unknot the tie that closes the top, wiggling the drawstring open. One eye on the men below, I dip my hand into the food bag, praying nothing rustles.

My hand closes around something metal and I’m thanking everything in the world that I tucked a can of camp stove fuel on top.

I pull the can out, weighing it in my hand, waiting for my moment.

And then, my moment chooses me.

Or rather, Turbo chooses the moment.

I hear the rush of paws through dried leaves and branches. A full-on gallop, followed by an excited yip. She breaks through the brush at full speed, barreling down the path toward them.

“What the—” Grim Voice turns toward the sound, raising his gun.

“Hey!” I scream at the top of my lungs, winding up the can with the power of a girl who spent all of middle school in softball camp. I hurl it at Grim Voice, and it slams into the back of his head with an entirely satisfying crack as he falls to his knees.

“Get away from my dog!”

(in order of priority)

Day Five

9. My father (dealt with)

8. Wes’s dad (blackmailed by Nora)

7. Duane Collins (set on fire; currently in prison)

6. Abigail Deveraux (to be determined)

5. Whoever’s chasing Wes

4. Whoever’s chasing Nora

3. Burnt henchman

2. Grim Voice henchman

1. Raymond Keane

Day Five. Before Dawn.

Roughly 5 miles from the Fire Tower

“Get away from my dog!”

Both men whirl, staring up at me as Turbo races past them and toward my tree, planting two paws on the trunk as she whines up at me.

Grim Voice grabs his head. The burnt one limps toward my tree—toward Turbo—and I plunge my hand in the food sack, praying to find another can, but the next thing I grab is a package of ramen. Oh my God. I throw it at him, hitting him straight in the face, but that doesn’t really do much but make him angrier.

“Turbo! Achilles! Achilles!” I yell as I try to find another can, and she pushes off the trunk and leaps for the burnt man’s foot.

She clamps down on his ankle—the same leg Nora hit with the flare gun—and the scream he lets out is feedback-at-a-metal-concert hellish. He reaches for his gun but doesn’t get a chance to pull it out of the holster. Turbo shakes her head back and forth, his ankle clenched in her jaw’s grip. Blood sprays in an arc as she yanks him off his feet. He falls with a thump to the ground, and she doesn’t let go of his Achilles tendon—or what’s left of it.

“Release!” I yell.

She lets go instantly. She darts out of the way, blood shining on her muzzle. The burnt man screams and screams. His eyes roll back at the sight of the blood spray, and then he’s not screaming anymore. He’s unconscious.

“What the fuck!” Grim Voice yells, and he surges to his feet.

“Run, Turbo! Run!”

Turbo obeys. I’m so relieved that she obeys. She doesn’t deserve to get caught in the crosshairs.

My hand closes around something hard in the bag. I yank it out and pelt the can down, hitting Grim Voice in the shoulder this time.

He surges toward me; three steps and he’ll be at the bottom of the trunk. One minute and he’ll be yanking me down. Can I tase him fast enough? Will it be enough?

He moves. I count the steps. My hands shake around the rope.

His head tilts up. “You’re gonna come down.”

I don’t bother to answer.

I just let go of the food bag’s rope. It falls. Right on his head.

I can’t believe it works! The gun goes flying out of his hand as he crumples like he’s a scarecrow that’s lost his stuffing, and for a beautiful second I think I’ve knocked him out.

And then he lets out the angriest bellow I have ever heard in my life, and I realize I’m fucked.

“You fucking—” He struggles to sit up, shoving the food bag off him, but slumps back to the ground. He’s dazed—is it long enough for me to get down? Long enough for me to run?

There’s only one way to find out. And I certainly can’t stay in this tree.

I scramble down so fast I scrape at least two layers of skin off my knee in the process, but it doesn’t matter. I need to follow Turbo deeper into the forest and hide.

“Stop!” Grim Voice shouts as my feet hit the ground, and I dart around the tree, out of his reach. His eyes widen as he stares over my shoulder at something like he’s seen a ghost.

“Ashley,” he says.

I jerk around and there Nora is, Turbo at her side.

“No!” he yells, but she’s too fast. She’s so incredibly fast. Her eyes dart from me to him to the gun lying there on the ground and he reaches for it, but he doesn’t have a chance.

It’s in her hand. It’s on him.

It’s over. Oh, thank God. This part, at least, is over.

“Iris, get the food and get away from him.”

I grab the food bag, swinging it over my shoulder, and run over to her.

“Here.” She hands me Turbo’s leash. “Get behind me.”

I only do it because she has the gun. Her desire to be a sacrificial human shield is bordering on pathological sometimes, but it makes sense in this situation.

“Ashley,” Grim Voice says again.

Her face kind of squinches. “Don’t call me that.”

“Okay,” he says, slowly and painfully getting to his feet. He holds up his hands, amiable, muscles loose. “You remember me?”

He steps forward.

“Don’t move, Marcus.”

“Okay. Good. You do remember me.”

His hands are up. But his shoulders are loose. He takes another step toward us.

“I said don’t move.”

He freezes.

It doesn’t matter.

She shoots.

Day Five. Before Dawn.

Roughly 5 miles from the Fire Tower

Nora shoots him in the foot, which I think is entirely too nice of her, but also smart. It’s a painful and useful wound; he can’t chase us with a bullet in his foot.

He yells, falling backward, but he doesn’t pass out like the other one.

For a second, I think we’re going to run. My body’s poised for it. But she moves forward, instead of away. She points the gun straight at his chest this time.

Oh shit. Are we really doing this? Is this where we’re at?

Yes. I know it in my bones.

“Where is he?” she demands.

He can’t bellow back at her, he’s panting too hard from the pain.

“I can make you tell me.” The way she’s talking, so flat, so focused, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard.

He doesn’t try to deny it. “You don’t have the time,” he grits out between pants. “I’ve got men in play. Including your old friend Caleb. He’s dying to see you all grown up.”

Her head tilts like she’s considering it. Calculating how long it will take to get it out of him. Measuring it against the risk of being found. She steps forward. He full-body flinches.

She smiles. “Give Raymond a message for me.”

“I won’t—”

“You will,” she insists. “You’ve always played both sides, Marcus. Don’t pretend.”

His silence is everything. I’ve seen her do this before, but I didn’t quite understand in the bank what she was doing … until I did.

I understand everything about her now. Know everything. Love everything that is her now.

There’s something about watching her actually do it and know she’s doing it. The way she can just twist and they’re right there, in her palm. He can’t take his eyes off her, even with the pain he’s in. The pain she’s inflicted.

I can’t look away, either. My stomach tightens around the frayed knot of nerves that’s been there for days now.

“You tell him that if he kills Amanda, it’s all over. But if he keeps his head for once …” She trails off. Draws the silence out until his ragged breathing turns annoyed. “I might be open to a trade. I know he wants his blackmail file back. I want Amanda back. I bet you want the blackmail file back, too. You must’ve dug up a lot of that dirt. That’s not good for you, is it?”

He lets out a low, pained laugh. “You fucking bitch.”

“I’m a bitch who has leverage,” she says. “You’re a strategy guy. Be strategic.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not gonna tell Raymond shit.”

She shrugs. “Your choice. But if catches me … You know how he hates secrets.”

She backs up, grabbing the bear bag from me, tugging me with her.

“Come on.”

“You can’t run!” he yells at us as we bolt into the trees, disappearing from his sight. Turbo gallops between us like the lead sled dog. I follow her, mindless from the fear, that painful thrum in my stomach and lower back getting stronger with each step. I’m still in my leggings from bedtime. My meds, my menstrual cup, all my just-in-case period underwear is back at camp.

I am so fucked.

“This way.” Nora tugs at my hand, pulling me deeper to the south. The air cools against my skin, the hair on my arms prickling. We move as quietly as we can.

“Where’s Wes?” I ask.

“I’ve got him,” she says.

“Why didn’t he come. Is he—”

She shakes her head. “Hurry, Iris.”

“He’s okay?”

“He’s out if it. He hit his head. We need to get back. We need to hide.”

“Wait,” I hiss. “How far?”

“He’s right by the creek. Another quarter-mile, I think?”

The creek? Relief clears some of the sour growing in my stomach. I didn’t realize we were that close to the water. I’d gotten so turned around.

“Let’s go.” I click my tongue at Turbo, who instantly goes alert. “C’mon, girl.”

We follow Nora, and I know she hates it, because she always positions herself so she’s watching my back. Stumbling through the dark takes longer than either of us wants, but at least we have the gun. And I don’t hear anyone in the distance.

Small mercies in a game that’s not prone to giving any.

“Are you really going to negotiate with Raymond?” I ask her.

“Depends,” is all Nora says. “Here.” She pulls me slightly to the right, where the shadow of a cluster of bushes lies. Turbo leaps forward, snuffling in them for Wes’s scent. I turn my Taser-light onto them as she pulls back a bush and Wes comes into sight.

“We’re back,” Nora says.

“You okay, Iris?” he asks.

I nod.

“I can’t believe you ran off—” he groans at Nora, and then winces in pain, his hand clutching his head.

“How bad is it? You throw up more?”

“I keep seeing spots.”

“We’ve got to hide,” Nora says. “They’ll circle back. Wes, can you run?”

“I don’t think so.”

Our options are dwindling. Wes needs to rest.

I look around frantically. “How far is the creek?”

“Like, five minutes down,” Nora says.

“Okay. And you drifted that way.” I point south.

“Yup.”

“Okay.” I nod. “Then I know where to go.”

“Where?” Wes asks.

“There’s an old mine shaft by the creek. Remember, me and Amanda spotted it when we got water?” God, was that only a few hours ago? It feels like a million years. “We can hide in there.”

“Iris, you’re amazing,” she breathes. “Okay. Grab Turbo. I’ve got Wes.”

“I can—” he insists, trying to get to his feet.

“You cannot,” she says, ducking under his arm and helping support his weight. “You aspirated a ton of water. You need to rest.”

We end up taking turns helping him down the bank. Staggering around in the dark as quietly as possible. Every step, I worry we’ll bring someone running. Someone we didn’t shoot in the foot.

I’m sweating by the time we get down the mine shaft. Boob sweat, too. The worst kind of sweat.

“It’s this way.” I point to the right once I spot the area Amanda and I had found.

Please, please let her be okay.

I let Nora take Wes’s weight and I dart ahead, searching for the opening to the mine shaft. I had wanted to go back and explore it this morning and now I’m looking for it so we can hide in it. Who knows if it’s structurally stable?

I think I might take getting buried alive over getting tortured by Raymond Keane. Dark? Absolutely. Truth? Totally.

There. I spot the opening, maybe thirty feet from the creek bed.

I duck down to see, only turning on the flashlight on my Taser when I’m inside. The tiny beam of light shines, illuminating the area. It’s all rough rock and wooden supports that may or may not crumble above me. Lots of red dirt and sharp rocks below me, digging into my knees as I crawl farther in. The area widens into a long shaft, maybe eight feet wide, stretching deeper than my light goes.

This is perfect. I crawl out as fast as I can. Turbo’s waiting for me at the entrance. As Nora helps Wes, I snap branches off manzanita bushes.

Wes goes first, then I usher Turbo in. Nora’s about to follow when I reach out and stop her. My adrenaline’s dropping. Which means the pain’s starting to really come into focus. The sharp ache in my left ovary feels like someone’s stabbing me low in the stomach with each beat of my heart. I’ll be bleeding by morning.

“Are we going to tell him now?” I force the question out. My voice sounds too small for such a big question. But I have to know.

She doesn’t say anything, which is my answer. Not yet. I don’t try to protest. I can’t. The time to do that was days ago. But I have to ask. I have to start preparing.

“Do you think he’ll forgive us?”

This time she does answer. Because that’s what has to be between her and me. The thing we denied him: honesty.

“I hope he will,” she says, and my own hopes, they rise, only to crash when she finishes, “But I don’t think he will.”

Day Five. Morning.

What we’re working with: 1 sling pack and its contents, 1 lantern, 1 Taser, 1 headlamp, 1 machete, 1 very angry boy and his dog

Sometimes when I sleep the girls play like old seventies home movies in my head, flickering and jerky, saturated with color that always looks slightly artificial—

—twirling through that insurance office, taking candy off the old ladies’ desks as they titter and pretend not to notice. Rebecca is such a scamp.

—double-bouncing on the trampoline. A girl’s laughter. Not mine. Do it again! Do it again, I beg. Sure thing, Sammy!

—the unforgiving press of the pew against my back, my head bent in prayer. Pastor Elijah tugs the sleeve of my sweater down to cover the bruises. Keep sweet, Haley.

—the stifling air in Joseph’s house. How my skin prickles when I step inside for the first time. Don’t you want to be a good girl, Katie?

—the sand under my bare feet. The knife in my hand. Raymond’s body feet away. The plan to get me out depends on it. What are you capable of, Ashley?

*

I jerk up and awake, the girls echoing in my head. The mine shaft is sweltering. I don’t remember falling asleep. It’s painful to move, my creek-battered left side is not appeased by the one ibuprofen I rationed for myself. I’m one big throbbing bruise. Is rock-rash a thing? Like road-rash, but from rocks? If it isn’t, I’m making it one.

“You’re awake.”

I push up, looking around. “How long—Wait … is he?” Wes is lying there, his chest rising and falling steadily.

“He fell asleep,” Iris says. “His pulse and pupils are normal, though. I’ve been waking him every hour in case he has a concussion.”

“How long?”

“It’s almost six. So three hours.”

“You didn’t sleep?”

“I’m bleeding,” she says. “Spotting,” she clarifies when my eyes widen. “It hurts. I couldn’t … someone needed to stay up.”

“Iris.” I reach out and squeeze her knee. She covers my hand with hers for a second, her smile shaky and unable to stick.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking stock,” Iris explains, sweeping her hand over the spread of supplies on the mine floor.

I half squat-walk, half crawl toward her. I could probably stand up in the mine, but I don’t want to risk bumping my head on the wrong rock and then everything coming crashing down on us.

It’s been that kind of week. I’m not risking it.

“How’s it going?”

“I would say about half our food supply fell out when I hit that one guy with the Batman voice with it.”

“That was Marcus.”

“You know him,” Iris says. “He’s—what … one of Raymond’s henchmen?”

“He was head of security at the Florida house when I got there,” I say. “Eventually, Raymond made him my bodyguard after Caleb …” Something occurs to me, and fuck, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.

Raymond’s brought both my bodyguards into the forest with him. The ones I screwed over in my quest to get out. And I didn’t just screw them over with the FBI—no, I screwed them over with Raymond.

Huge difference.

Revenge is a fierce motivator. So it sucks to be me right now.

“Nora?”

“I’m fine,” I say, even though she hasn’t asked. “What are we working with?”

“We’ve got six dehydrated meals left. Only one pot and can of fuel, though. Fifteen protein bars. Three packets of jerky. Two cans of beans, four packets of ramen, all of Turbo’s food, a bunch of trail mix, and the water filters and two water bladders, thank goodness. We can at least filter water from the creek.”

“Did you go through my sling pack?”

She nods. “First-aid kit, moleskin for blisters, bug spray, collapsible shovel, Swiss Army knife—we each have one of those—”

“Lee comes through with the Christmas presents every time.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear how useful they were once we get out of here,” Iris says.

“Right,” I say, like I’m sure it’ll happen.

“Waterproof matches,” Iris continues. “My notebook. I guess we could use that for kindling? Four granola bars. Tampons—thank you for packing those, by the way. I took them ’cause I’m going to need them.”

“Shit,” I say. “Your meds—”

“Back at camp. Also, the last thing I want to do is be fuzzy when we’re running for our lives. But we left the bear spray behind, too.”

Shit. Let’s hope we don’t encounter one.

“Did you at least take some ibuprofen?”

She nods. “It’ll be okay.”

I want to argue—if her endometriosis pain gets too bad, what are we going to do? Sometimes she can’t walk well on the really bad days. I’ll carry her if I have to.

“Did you check the gun?” I ask, even though shooting our way out of this is, like, the least likely scenario to work.

She shakes her head. She’s set it to her right, as far away as possible from her.

Wes taught her how to shoot. She’s actually decent at it. It’s just … she has a distaste for guns.

I grab it and release the magazine to check, and my stomach sinks. There’s only four bullets left.

That won’t be enough.

“Bad?” Iris asks, studying my face.

I try to smooth out my expression, but it’s no use. “Four bullets left. We’ll figure it out.”

“How many guys do you think are out there?”

“Well, there’s Caleb and Marcus. And the guy who was with Marcus. I didn’t recognize him.”

“Who’s Caleb?”

“The one who whistled. The one who yelled out my—her—Ashley’s name.”

“You know him, too.”

“Caleb was her first bodyguard.” Wes’s voice is rusty, but strong.

“Wes!”

“Oh my God, Wes,” I say, and we both scramble over to him, one on each side. Iris grabs the water bottle, and I help him sit up—slowly.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“You need water,” Iris says. “Tiny sips,” she tells him when she hands him the bottle.

But he doesn’t raise it to his lips. He stares right into me, glittering blue-gray eyes.

“How long?” he asks.

“It’s been about three hours,” I say. “Sun’s up.”

“I can pick up their trail,” he insists, trying to stand up too fast, wincing and then hiding it badly.

“Let me feel,” I say, cupping the back of his head as gently as I can. He hisses out a painful breath when I make contact.

“It hasn’t gotten bigger,” I say, trying to be positive. “I’ve got some ibuprofen in the kit. You’ve gotta take it.”

“We have to go,” he says, and this time he looks around, like he’s realized how low the ceiling of the mine shaft is.

“Please drink some water. You’ll get dehydrated.”

“It’s light out. I can find their trail …” he says again, like he’s on a loop, and I can’t really blame him. If someone took Iris or him, I would be feral right now.

“After you drink some water,” Iris insists. “And take these.” She makes a cup out of his palm and places the ibuprofen in it.

He does as she asks, taking small sips of water.

“How far are we from camp?” he asks.

“Maybe a mile. But we can’t go back there. They’ll either have it staked out, or they’ll have destroyed our stuff. There’s no point. If we head east, we can make it to the tower in five hours if we really push it. We’ll radio for help.”

Wes starts shaking his head before my half-formed plan is fully out there.

“Amanda’s been in the woods with them for hours. And you want me to wait until, what, the sheriff comes? Are you fucking crazy?”

“Okay, fine. You and Iris head to the fire tower to radio for help. I’ll go after Amanda.”

“Absolutely not.” They both say it at once, like they’re one person for a second.

“What is with you always trying to sacrifice yourself?” Iris demands, as Wes mutters, “It’s a sisterly trait.”

She rolls her eyes at him, all commiserating, and says, “You’re right. It’s both of them. It’s pathological.”

“Let’s maybe stop contemplating how much Lee and I are alike and figure out what the hell to do here,” I say.

“We go pick up their trail and find where they’re keeping Amanda,” Wes says.

“And we’re just going to … what? Ask nicely for the crime lord to give her back?”

His mouth flattens. This time, it’s not in pain.

“This is war,” I say quietly. “And it’s not the kind where you follow gentlemen’s agreements or senses of honor or, like, the Geneva Convention, or whatever. He is out there somewhere. Raymond will wait for them to grab me and bring me to him. And if they’ve brought him the wrong girl …”

My throat clicks when I swallow. He doesn’t look away from me. He won’t let me break the gaze, and I love him too much to look away. To hide from this. He won’t let me.

“Is she dead already, Nora?” Wes asks. “Did they slit her throat the second they realized Amanda wasn’t you? Is that why there was so much blood?”

I want to say no.

I want to say of course not.

But it’s harder to lie to his face when he’s asking the right questions.

“I don’t think she’s dead. They’ll take her to him before doing something like that. And he won’t get rid of good leverage.”

“She’s not—”

“That’s how he thinks of her,” I interrupt, cold and clipped, and the anger in his eyes burns brighter against my iciness. “Catch up,” I continue, too mean and too blunt, and I should care—I do care—but he needs to understand. I need him to stay alive. “We need to think like him if we want to survive this. Because he was fucking crazy before, but six years of running a prison gang probably made him worse.”

“We’ve heard all your stories—”

“Well, I lived them,” I say. “I’m the expert in Raymond Keane. I don’t think he’ll kill her as long as he thinks she’s useful.”

“What does that mean?” he asks.

I swallow. “It means as long as he thinks I’ll come for her, he’ll keep her alive.”

“I am coming for her,” Wes says, his voice cracking.

“Of course you are,” Iris says softly. “She just means, the longer we evade capture—”

“The longer Amanda stays safe,” I finish.

“You want me to hide in this hole in the ground and do nothing?” Wes demands.

“No,” I say patiently. “I want you to hide in this hole in the ground until we form a solid plan, like, say, capturing one of them, getting the camp location out of him, and coming up with an informed ambush strategy so Raymond doesn’t see us coming and just shoot Amanda in the head.”

Wes gets to his feet. He has to majorly stoop as he glances around, clocks the exit, and heads toward it—but not before grabbing my machete from where I looped it through a slit I made in the strap of my sling pack. Easy access.

“Hey!” I protest, but he doesn’t listen to me. He takes my weapon and crawls out of the cave like a giant drama queen, and I know he’s very justified, but also I would like him to not get kidnapped—there is enough of that going around already—so I grab the gun and follow him.

“Do you want me to, like, follow you two or …?” Iris asks as she scratches Turbo between her ears.

“I will be right back. Stay here with Turbo.”

“You two better figure this out,” Iris hisses behind me as I crawl toward the entrance. “Especially if we’re gonna get killed! New rule: we can’t go to our untimely deaths angry. It’s like not going to bed angry, just … danger style.”

“I will endeavor not to be angry or get murdered,” I mutter over my shoulder.

My eyes are not prepared for the light that greets me. I hastily reassemble the manzanita branches that Iris has fashioned to cover up the mine entrance. And then I chase after Wes, who’s barely in view, stalking through the trees with the determination and heedlessness only a pissed boy can seem to pull off.

“Hey!” I hiss at him, kind of doing a running crouch thing after him. “What the fuck, dude?”

“Don’t call me dude, O’Malley.”

“Don’t call me O’Malley, dude.”

We glare at each other.

“Do you know how fucked I am right now?” he asks. Almost conversationally.

“Well, if they catch us out here: really fucked. So why don’t we go back to hiding in the nice mine shaft?”

He reaches up, hacking into a low-hanging pine branch with my machete. I scan the area, worried someone will hear the sound. My best bet is that they destroyed our camp in the night and rounded up their wounded and brought them back to wherever their own camp is. That means they’ll have to try to pick up our trail later.

“The man who wants to kill you took my girlfriend,” Wes continues. He brings the machete down on the branch again, tearing me out of my thoughts. It falls to the ground.

“Wes, I’m sorry I lent Amanda my flannel. I didn’t think about—”

His eyes rise to meet mine, and my mouth snaps shut because I can’t really explain my way out of this, can I? They must’ve thought I was her. They took her. Of course they did.

Do you think he’ll forgive us? Iris’s question circles in my head.

No. But he might be alive to hate me, and that’s everything when faced with the other option.

He sets the knife against the branch and strips it of bark with ruthless efficiency. I see it now, what he’s doing.

He’s making a spike at the end. Forming the branch into a spear.

“You took Jill,” I tell him, as he reaches up to hack free another branch. “You didn’t even ask.”

That gets me a look. His pale eyebrows knit together. “Jill?”

“The machete.”

“You named the machete Jill?”

“I can do whatever I want with my machete.”

“I need it,” is all he says, as he tosses the branch near my feet.

“Am I supposed to do something with these?”

“When we’ve got a good stack, we can bring it back to the mine. We’ll need a lot of them.”

I stare down at the branch and then at him. “I don’t get it.”

“Your plan is a good one,” he says. “Capture one of them, get the camp location, create a solid ambush strategy. That way we’re not thrashing around in the woods, trying to find him and getting hungrier and more dehydrated.”

“We’re no use to anyone if we fall off a cliff or die of dehydration,” I say slowly. I kind of can’t believe he’s going along with my plan.

“Then we’re agreed,” he says, bringing Jill down onto another pine branch.

“I still think maybe we should split up. If two of us headed toward the fire tower—”

“You’re not isolating yourself. That’s what he wants. We stick together from now on,” Wes says. “He’s come for you, Nora.”

I want to shoot back Yes, duh, I know, but I can’t go for pithy, because even though I know it, even though I knew it, someone actually saying it out loud is kind of terrifying.

“We have to keep you safe,” Wes says, and the earnest thread in his voice is like a bullet to the chest.

“Okay, but I’m not exactly clear on what you’re doing with the big sticks, though.”

“We’ve got a Taser and a machete as weapons,” he says.

“I got a gun off one of them,” I add. “But it only has four bullets left.”

“That’s nothing.”

“I know. We’re fucked.”

“Maybe not.” He tosses the branch to join the first one. “You know how I used to spend June with my grandpa up at his farm?”

I nod.

“He was always building stuff with me. One year it was a tree house. Another it was a canoe. We did a Rube Goldberg machine. But there was one year, right before he died, I dunno. He got a little dark. He taught me how to build booby traps.”

“Booby traps? Like water buckets set on doors or—”

“Like the gnarly, we’re-in-a-trench-war kind of booby traps.”

I look down at the branches. “And you want to capture Raymond’s cronies with one?”

“It’s simple. You dig a hole, you embed the spikes, you cover up the hole. Bad guy steps on the cover, crashes through. Bam, spike in the foot. Then when he’s screaming in pain and trying to yank himself out, we come up behind him, disarm him, now we’ve got another gun, maybe a communication device. They’ve got to have radios or satellite phones. And then you can do your thing.”

“My thing?”

“Your con mind-game thing. You know some of these guys, right?”

“Well, I shot Marcus in the foot, so I don’t think he’ll be wandering around the woods anymore. I didn’t know the guy he was with, but I know Caleb. I didn’t get to shoot him.”

Pity. Shooting Caleb has risen to the top of my to-do list. It’s currently above shooting Raymond only because I know I’ll have to go through Caleb to get to the man himself.

“How many do you think there are?”

“I think there was a team of three or four in the woods. That means Raymond’s got at least one person back at camp with him. Maybe more.”

“I thought Caleb was dead. Did I get that—”

“No, you didn’t get it wrong. Until last night, I also thought he was dead. Don’t ask,” I say when he opens his mouth. “I don’t even know.”

“Well, that must be a mind-fuck.”

“There’s been a lot of that going on lately,” I say faintly. I clear my throat. “Okay. I’ll grab these. Take them back to the mine. I’ve got a Swiss Army knife in my sling pack, so Iris can start making them into spears.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll be right back. Don’t you dare run off with Jill. I’ll come after her … and you, I guess.”

“You are so fucking cheesy. Especially in the face of looming danger.”

“Yeah, well, I was taught to grin and bear it.” I gather the branches in my arms. They’re kind of unwieldy. The bark scrapes against my skin and leaves bits all over my fleece. I start to march back toward the mine, but then I turn and look at him. Just to be sure he won’t run off with Jill.

“Wes,” I say. “We’ll get Amanda back.”

“You can’t promise that.”

I swallow around that clench in my throat. “I love you too much to lie to you like that. But I can try as hard as I can to get her back.”

And then I walk away, the truth bitter in my heart.

Sometimes lying is the only way through to survival.

Ashley (Sower. Hunter. Gatherer.)

Act Three: Gatherer

The stables where I ride my horse aren’t crowded. That’s the problem. They’re an elite space for elite people, and that makes it an almost impossible place to infiltrate.

But my sister’s made her life on almosts. That’s what makes her so special.

I’m humming with nerves as I start my day like I always do: turning Metis into the pasture while I clean out her stall. As I take a plastic wheelbarrow full of hay and manure out, I’m looking for blond hair, wondering where she is.

“There you are!” chirps a voice behind me.

“Hi, Valorie,” I call over my shoulder as I push the wheelbarrow toward the manure pile in the back.

Valorie, my trainer, is nice. Probably too nice. But that’s kind of what you have to be when your clientele is a bunch of rich people’s kids.

“You’re not on my schedule today,” she says.

“No lesson today,” I say. “I just wanted to hang out with Metis.”

“Okay,” she says. “Pasture three’s free at two if you want to walk her through some exercises.”

“Awesome,” I say. “Hey, can I get a folding chair for Caleb? He always complains sitting on the fence posts hurts his butt.”

Valorie laughs. “You two make quite the pair.”

“He likes you, you know.”

“That is completely inappropriate, Ashley!” she scolds good-naturedly, like the two of them don’t flirt all the time. Her cheeks turn pink, and she fiddles with her hair as she says it.

“He’d like the company as he’s sitting there.”

“Well, I’m headed up to the clubhouse for a while, so he’ll have to miss out.”

“Not if I send him up there!”

She giggles. “You should stop playing matchmaker.”

“But I’m good at it!”

She waves me off, heading up the path to the clubhouse.

I dump out my wheelbarrow and go back to lay out new bedding for Metis. As I’m pitchforking fresh straw down, I hear it: three taps from the stall next to mine.

I freeze next to the wall. “Olive,” I whisper.

“Olive,” my sister whispers back.

I press my hand against the wood, wishing I could see her.

“The listening devices are under the feed bucket in this stall. Place them in his office, in his bedroom, and in the common areas the men frequent most. Wear gloves when you handle them. Text me when they’re all placed. Got it?”

“Got it,” I answer.

“You okay?”

I press my hand harder against the wood, wishing it could absorb some of my fear. I want to ask her to get me out of here right now. If Marcus searches deeper under the docks, I’m doomed.

But I know better. I know my mother. She won’t let me go or rest if I run. Not unless I make sure she can’t chase after me.

It’s them or me. And finally I know enough to know I can choose me.

“I’ve got this,” I say. “I promise.”

“Ashley!” a voice calls at the entrance of the barn.

“Go!” I whisper, turning back to my stall.

Caleb sticks his head in a second later.

“What?” I ask.

“You gonna do this all day?”

“If I don’t want my horse to stand in shit, yeah.”

He snorts. “I thought you had a lesson today.”

“No, I’m mucking out and giving Metis a bath. You’ve got Trainer Valorie all to yourself. I think she’s in the east pasture. You should go see.” I move past him, grabbing my own feed bucket and stepping into the barn aisle.

Down the way, I see her for the first time. My sister’s hair’s dark, not blond. Her eyebrows match. It’s strange; it’s her but it’s not her.

Mom never let me dye my hair as a disguise. And ruin this beautiful hair? It catches everyone’s attention.

“Mrs. Anderson!” One of the barn owners hurries over when she sees her. “There you are!”

“I’m afraid I got turned around,” my sister laughs. “You have a beautiful spread.”

“It’s my fault for not meeting you at the gate. I’ve got the mares you wanted to look at in the round.”

So that’s how she got in: by posing as a buyer. We might be able to use that again. But hopefully this is all we need: me to plant the listening devices, figure out the safe code from the tones of the keys, then as soon as I get what’s inside, I’m gone. Free.

I watch as my sister and the owner walk out of the barn and toward the mares she has absolutely no intention of buying.

“What are you looking at?” Caleb asks.

I let out a giant yawn. “Sorry, zoning out. I should’ve grabbed a soda before we left.” I look at him expectantly.

He rolls his eyes. “Do you want me to fetch one for you, princess?”

“That’d be great! Get one for yourself, too.” I pull out my wallet, and he lets out a disgusted noise at the action, stalking off to use Raymond’s credit card at the vending machine that’s half a mile from the barn up near the clubhouse.

He’ll take his time to piss me off. And then he’ll get distracted by Valorie. It gives me all the time in the world to act.

As soon as he’s out of sight, I walk into the stall next to Metis’s. I don’t move fast, I move casually. So no one will be interested or curious.

I flip the overturned feed bucket. There’s a small nylon case that I unzip to check. I don’t really know what bugs look like—not like real insects, that’s for sure—but there’s twelve of them, I count them. There’s also a new burner cell. I shove the case into my jacket pocket.

There’s one more hurdle to clear.

Caleb searches my bag and my pockets before he drives me home. It’s Raymond’s rule.

My next stop is the parking area. The power of duct tape should never be underestimated; I get the case of bugs taped to the wheel well out of sight. He’ll drive them right into the garage, and I’ll get them later.

By the time I hurry back to the stables, they’re empty. The next round of classes is starting, which means Valorie’s lunch is starting, too. If I time it right, it’ll be almost an hour before he bothers to look for me.

I stare at the stall door. Luckily, it swings instead of sliding. But I have to hype myself up for it, because it needs to be real to be believed. It needs to be gnarly for Mom to blow.

I’m aiming for banishment here. That calls for something spectacularly bloody.

My fingers curl around the stall door. It’s now or never.

I swing it wide, let the momentum build. It hits the stall wall with a bang and comes hurtling back, right toward me.

I stand totally still.

Tongue to the roof of your mouth. Clench your teeth. Don’t break your jaw.

The door collides with the right side of my head, sending me flying.

I don’t even have time to think I did it before I’m knocked out.

I come back in snatches, the light too bright and my head a million times too heavy for my neck. I let out a pitiful whimper because maybe I should’ve thought of a better way to do this. This hurts so much.

“Baby? Baby!”

That’s Mom’s voice.

“Raymond! She’s waking up! Get that doctor.”

Oh good. They’re both here.

It worked.

I blink at the cream-white ceiling. We must be up at the main house. The stables have been in the same family for generations. They still live on the land.

I’m on a bed in some sort of guest room. It’s soft, which is nice, because I feel like I’ve been kicked by a horse instead of thrown across a stall by a swinging door.

“Baby? Say something. Do you know your name?”

“Which one?” I ask her, and Abby lets out a watery laugh, looking uncharacteristically worried. Her eyeliner’s even smudged. Abby never gets smudged.

“You worried about me?” I ask. “S’okay, Mommy.”

“What happened, baby?”

“I hit my head.”

The best con has a kernel of truth. This one has a whole ass bag ready to be turned into popcorn. And I’ll feast on it while the Caleb obstacle is removed from my path so I’m free to betray and run.

“Where was Caleb, baby? One of the other girls found you, and she said you must’ve been lying there for a good fifteen minutes.”

“I dunno,” I say. “He … he’s not always around, you know?”

“What?” she asks, her expression going cloudy.

“Sometimes he goes up to the club when Valorie’s there on her break. Only when I’m mucking out the stall and stuff. Not when I’m riding or anything.”

“He’s been making a habit of this?” Her voice goes ice-queen cold, her jaw tensing.

“No, Mom, I don’t mean—he’s nice. He’s not boring and old like the other guys. He lets me listen to my own music when we’re driving. Please don’t get mad—”

It works perfectly. My face must be bruised to hell. I knew it would infuriate her. She hates when anything threatens my looks.

“You need to rest, baby,” she says. “You rest while I go get the doctor.”

She storms out of there. I can’t hear all of the conversation she has in the hall with Raymond, but she’s so pissed I catch pieces.

I told you he was too young to look after her.

She could’ve broken her nose! Do you know what that might do to a girl’s self-esteem?

… want him out of my house!

This is my daughter!

I lean against the pillows and smile even though it makes my face hurt.

Not our daughter, like how she usually says it.

My daughter.

Raymond won’t like that.

Everything is going according to plan.

Day Five. Afternoon.

Roughly 5 miles from the Fire Tower

What we’re working with: 1 sling pack and its contents, 2 light sources, 1 Taser, Jill the machete, 3 Swiss Army knives, 1 collapsible shovel, 1 very angry boy and his dog, a bunch of wooden spears for booby traps

Making spears is finger-numbing work. Which is great, because once your fingers go numb, you don’t feel the splinters as much. And there are so many splinters, whether you’re dealing with tiny Swiss Army knife blades or Jill’s superior sharpness.

The mine shaft grows more humid as the sun rises and the time ticks away. I don’t dare try to let light or air in, but the sweat trickles down my back, making me yearn for a dip in the creek.

“I think I’ve got the perfect formation,” Wes says, holding up Iris’s notebook, where he’s been drawing ideal booby trap positions. She sets down the spear she’s been working on, one that she’s sharpened to a dangerous point with deep grooves at the top to fit her fingers. This one was definitely not going in the to-be-dug pits.

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

“There’s a clearing right behind our abandoned camp. That meadow we crossed through this morning. We’ll set the traps there. We can position smaller ones along the edges. Then a large trap in the middle.”

“Do we have the time to dig such a deep hole?” I ask.

“It’ll take most of the night. But between the three of us? If we work hard. We can get it done by dawn.”

“And then we lie in wait?” Iris picks her spear back up, setting her knife blade to it.

“Then we rest for half the day,” I say. “And devise a simple plan to draw them out to the meadow. I’m thinking a campfire.”

“The smoke would be perfect,” Iris says. “We’ll use green branches. More smoke, less fire danger. We have to be careful about containing the fire. We’ll leave behind some food wrappers. It’ll look like we were setting up camp and ran when we heard them coming.”

“I like it,” I say. “It lends more reality to the situation.”

“Details are everything,” Iris agrees. “What do you think, Wes?”

“I just want— I want her back. The longer Amanda’s out there with them—” He stops, like he can’t handle the thought. “What are they doing to her?”

“Amanda is strong,” Iris says. “She’s strong and she’s really smart, and like every other teenaged girl, she has gotten the lecture about how to humanize yourself to your captor if you get kidnapped. So that is exactly what she’s doing right now.”

“There’s some kind of universal ‘how to deal with a kidnapper as a girl’ lecture?”

“It goes along with telling us how to hold our keys between our fingers so we can stab people’s eyes out with them if they attack us in parking lots,” Iris says.

“And checking the back seat of the car before we get into it in case there’s someone hiding there,” I add.

“And how you should kick the brake light out of the back of a car if someone throws you in a trunk—”

“That way you can wave your hand out, and the cars driving behind can see you and call 911.”

Wes stares at us. “That’s really fucked up.”

“That’s the world,” Iris says, which kind of surprises me because it’s something I would say. Iris is usually gentler. “And that’s the world Amanda knows, I guarantee you. Don’t underestimate her, Wes. She’ll be okay.” Her eyes flicker to meet mine over his shoulder. “We will get her out of this,” she says. “I promise.”

We wait until dark. We rest the best we can, because we won’t be able to sleep tonight.

When it’s dark enough, we gather everything together. The rusty bucket Iris found half buried in dirt in the mine. The collapsible shovel.

We creep through the forest, no light but the growing moon. It’s rising high by the time we get to what used to be our camp. It’s like we were never there. Every single piece of gear has disappeared. Even the campfire ashes have been spirited away, like someone shoveled them into a bucket and walked off with them.

“It’s all gone,” Iris whispers.

“They took it,” I say. “Come on. Hurry up.”

I wouldn’t put it past him to have trail cams around, just in case we came back.

He’ll try to erase every trace of us in this forest so they’ll never know where to look for our bodies.

Lee could search forever and never find my bones to bury.

I shiver. I don’t want that for her. I’m trying not to think about what this will do to her. If I think about it, I’ll lose my balance. The ground will tilt me clear off, and I’ll never find which way’s up.

Raymond has to get hold of me in order to kill me. At least there’s that. And he’s doing a terrible job so far. He must be so mad they brought him the wrong girl. But hopefully not mad enough to kill her.

You better be as smart as Iris thinks you are, I think toward wherever Amanda is. You better be telling him we’re the best of friends. That I’d be destroyed if you died. That I’ll do anything to get you free.

Wes comes to a stop. “We’re here,” he says.

The clearing sprawls in front of us. I can’t make out the wildflowers in the dark, but I know them—sweet peas and lupin and these yellow flowers that aren’t dandelions but something else equally bright.

“Let’s get to work,” I say.

It takes all night. It is hideous, dirty work. We wrap our hands as best we can to prevent blisters. We dig in shifts: one on guard, circling around us, careful not to fall into the growing hole. One digs. And the third person carts the dirt away, bucket by bucket. We cycle through the jobs so we don’t shred our hands completely. But we get the smaller traps done in the first few hours, and then all the focus is on the big trap. And as the hole grows deeper, Wes and I stay in it, digging methodically as Iris carts dirt away. We even fill my sling pack with dirt, and Turbo moves it around for us.

Twelve hours later, we’ve got ourselves five booby traps and a plan.

As the sky begins to fuzz to gray, I take Jill and methodically chop out squares of grass and wiggle the chunks free like sod. By the time I’ve got a big enough stack, Wes is done with the loose frame he’s made to hold the sod over the tiger trap. It’ll break under the pressure of a foot, but not the pressure of the grass. We lay the chunks over the frame, square by square, and by the time we’re done and I’ve smoothed everything out, you can’t tell the difference.

Iris places a rock at the corner of the trap.

“There,” she says. “I don’t want to fall into it.”

We stare down at it, leaning against each other.

It’s not enough. It only works if we can drive them to this exact field and then into one of the traps. But it’s a good start. It’s something.

It’s more than a gun and four bullets.

“We need to go,” I say. It’s getting light out, and it’s two miles back to the mine shaft. I’m exhausted. I can’t even imagine how the two of them feel.

By the time we get back to the mine shaft, pink’s streaking across the sky. It’s halt-in-your-tracks beautiful, but we can’t stop. I only take enough time to refill the water bladder in the creek before we slip back into the mine shaft, one by one, and I pull the branches back into place to hide the entrance. By the time I move through the narrow crawl space into the large area, Iris is already lying down, curled into a fetal position, her fleece bundled into a pillow under her head.

“Iris,” I say. “We gotta clean your hands. Bandage them up.”

Iris groans. “Do Wes’s hands first,” she says. “I want to lie here.”

Wes casts a worried look at me. The endo, I mouth at him, and his eyes grow dark with concern.

“Okay, I’ll do Wes’s first,” I say. “Do you want some ibuprofen or food first?”

“Ibuprofen,” she answers after a pause.

Wes grabs it for her and makes sure she has his jacket for an additional pillow as I unpack the rest of the first-aid kit.

“Try to eat this.” I nudge a granola bar toward her. She takes it, but she doesn’t unwrap it.

I look down at the first-aid kit. I don’t have enough moleskin or gauze for all of us. We tried to cover the hot spots as they cropped up, but you can’t really do much about preventing blisters when you’re digging for hours with no gloves. My own hands have deep grooved blisters cut across the palms from the bucket carrying.

In the weak lantern light, I make sure I have water and hand sanitizer spray and antibiotic ointment.

“Hold them out,” I direct Wes. He obeys, and I try not to make a terrible face when I get the measure of his hands. His blisters have blisters. I didn’t realize such a thing was possible. I wash them as best as I can, which is the easy part. “Maybe we should get you something to bite down on for this part,” I say, holding up the spray.

“I can handle it,” he says, and my stomach dips because he’s right: this is nothing compared to what’s come before. I reach out and squeeze his knee.

“I know you can. But you should be able to scream and you can’t.”

His hand comes down, his palm open so his knuckles—the only part of him that’s not blistered—bump against mine. “Thanks.” He pulls his hand back up. “Okay. Do it.”

I spray his hands with the sanitizer, making sure I get it all over and in every wound. By the time I’m done and ready to wrap his hands with the moleskin and gauze, he’s breathing hard.

How many times did he lie in his bathroom as a kid, staying quiet, breathing through the pain of what could only be called wounds?

Too many.

“You next, Iris,” I say. “You want me to come over there?”

She nods. When she gets quiet, that’s when I always get worried. That’s when you know the pain’s really bad.

I’m as gentle as I can be, but cleaning her hands is so much worse than cleaning Wes’s because she holds herself so rigid, her eyes sliding out of focus in that way that tells me she’s really not there anymore. You have to blank out sometimes, she told me once. Otherwise you’ll pass out. Sometimes you still do.

Contributing to her pain is torture. It makes my stomach churn as I tie the final piece of bandage around her hand.

“All done,” I tell her gently.

She nods shakily. “Now you.”

“I can do mine.”

“Sit,” Wes says, at the same time as Iris says, “Honestly, Nora.”

Iris takes my right hand and Wes takes my left, and fuck were they underplaying how much basically bathing your raw flesh in hand sanitizer hurts.

We’re totally out of gauze. There’s only enough moleskin left to tape up my left hand. Iris glares at me when she realizes it.

“This is why you didn’t want to go first.”

“We can use my fleece.” I start to pull it off with my bandaged hand, but she stops me and pulls off the purple bandanna she’s got knotted around her neck. She wraps my right hand carefully, tucking the embroidered parts into the folds of cloth.

“See?” I wave the bandanna-wrapped hand toward Iris. “All good.”

She lies back down. There are dark smudges under her eyes.

“Use this, too,” I tell her, pulling off my fleece and handing it to her.

She shakes her head. “You need a pillow.”

“I can use you.” I say, and then to prove it I lie back, my head pressing on her thigh. “Is this okay? It doesn’t hurt?” I tilt up to look at her, and she’s smiling so soft as she pushes my hair off my forehead, ruffling my bangs in a way I am sure makes me look ridiculous.

“It’s okay,” she says.

Turbo lies down next to me, a warm line of heat against my own thigh, and my eyes drift shut. I don’t even know enough about my body to say what exactly hurts. Everything, is the easy answer. I can hear rustling, and I muster the energy to watch Wes lie down on the other side of Turbo.

“How long?” I ask him.

“If you want to go with the campfire plan, the smoke’ll be a bigger draw and more convincing at night.”

I nod. “Then we rest until then. It’s not like we’re gonna be getting much rest after we catch one of them.”

“Tell me about them,” Wes says. “His men. What you remember.”

I don’t want to. I don’t want to go back there. The humidity in this hole in the ground is reminding me too much of Florida already. Some of the men out there are not the ones who meant enough to haunt me, but now I wonder if they should’ve, because they may have been blips in my escape—necessary pawns to manipulate—but I wasn’t a blip in their lives.

I became the bogey-girl. A curse in a beautiful blond package. The danger no one ever saw coming.

But they know what I am now. They reaped what I sowed. And now they’re here for revenge.

“Marcus is protective,” I say, my eyes closing, stroking Turbo’s back with the tips of my fingers. It feels like the only unblistered skin is my fingertips. My hand brushes against Wes’s hand that’s settled on her rump on every downstroke, and I give it a pat. I’m so tired and this floor is hard as shit, but Iris’s thigh is so warm; her fingers are in my hair. “He has kids. He’ll fight hard to get back to them.”

“But you shot him,” Wes says.

“In the foot,” Iris says.

“So he’s out of commission. The thing is, he’s a strategy guy. Putting him right next to Raymond so they can plot together is bad for us.”

“What about the other one? Caleb?” Iris asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Caleb definitely wants to kill me—he tried one time—but I thought he was dead, so I’m kind of trying to process the whole Caleb was not fed to alligators like I was told thing, which was really traumatizing at the time, so I’m kind of pissed.”

“Okay, so Marcus is protective and willing to do what it takes to stay alive, and Caleb is fucking crazy,” Iris sums up.

“Caleb’s also really good with a knife,” I add. “That’s actually partly how I learned.”

“We’re trapped in the woods with the man who taught you your crazy knife skills?” Iris demands.

“Raymond taught me about butchering. Caleb taught me about fighting with knives when I was trapped in the mansion.”

“We’re all going to die,” Iris says.

“Don’t say that,” Wes grinds out.

“Oh, Wes.” She bites her lip. “I didn’t mean—”

“Just don’t,” he says again.

We fall silent. We can’t really joke our way out of this.

Iris falls asleep first, and then Wes. I keep myself awake, my fingers trailing down Turbo’s spine, back and forth, back and forth … until finally I drift off, too.

Ashley (Sower. Hunter. Gatherer. Killer)

Act Four: Killer

Caleb’s out of the house the next day. I’m given a revolving door of security guys; Marcus cycles the house team through a schedule to take me to the stables and shopping and the beach.

Meanwhile, I’m planting bugs in the office, the dining room, and the staff kitchen the guys drink their coffee in. The only place I haven’t gotten to is the primary bedroom, which sucks, because I’m almost sure that’s where the safe the FBI wants is.

The days tick by. Then the weeks. Then it’s two months, and Raymond is more short-tempered than usual, always in his office with his men, and I bite my nails down to stumps, I’m so nervous. What’s the FBI doing with the information they’re getting from the bugs? What if that’s all they need? What if they’ve decided to leave me here, now that they’ve gotten what they want?

Isolation makes you spin stories. Some of them closer to the truth than you’d like. And one of the most sensible things Abby ever did was raise me to hate all kinds of cops.

So I decide to take matters into my own hands. I use the old burner cell now that my sister’s given me a new one. I wait until right before dinner time one day, so he’ll get it around dusk, right before night falls. It’ll be long enough for him to walk right into a terrible idea under the cover of darkness.

I send three texts to Caleb’s number.

Sorry you got fired.

A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

I turn off the phone and tuck it in the extra tampon box shoved in the back of my bathroom cabinet—its temporary home until I can store it back under the docks.

“Ashley! Dinner!” Mom calls.

I slide the final bug into the hidden pocket at the back of my leggings. Just in case it happens like I want.

“Coming!”

Now all I can do is hope he takes the bait. That he’s smart enough to understand how I’ve played him. Mad enough to do something about it. And that he remembers what I said about the blind spot near the back fence.

When I wake up to the knife against my throat, I don’t expect it.

I’m expecting the blaring of the house alarm or security guys shouting. But I underestimated him. He got all the way inside with no one noticing.

My eyes flutter the second his knee presses into the bed. My body is rolling away before I’m fully awake; he has to grab my shoulder to yank me onto my back. I kick out, my hand scrambling for my pillow. But he clamps down on my wrist before I can grab my own knife.

“Stay still,” Caleb grunts.

I freeze when his other knee presses into the bed. My mind clamors. I need something to fight him off. My free hand curls, my nails biting into my palms.

My eyes spin across the ceiling in panic before I focus on the face looming over me. His surfer-boy hair hangs in his face as he presses the knife against my throat.

I keep breathing in and out, too fast, too scared, too everything. I’m about to fly out of the bed, knife or not, and it’s like he knows.

“We’re going to have a talk about what you pulled at the stables,” he says. “I want to know what you’re up to. Or I’ll cut you.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Because it means I’ve only got one chance. I let out a shaky, scared breath, drawing it in so fast it makes the knife skate across my skin. It’s so sharp it does cut. The blood trickles. My lungs fill.

I let out the loudest scream I’ve ever let out, slashing my nails against his face, really gouging in there when I get to the corner of his mouth. My nail snags against something squishy, and I yank at the flesh until I feel it tear because Hurry, hurry, you’ve got to get out of this bed, you’ve got to run, what if they don’t hear? What if he cuts you?

And then my feet hit the carpet of my bedroom, and I’m running and he’s chasing. The door’s right there, I grab for the knob and jerk it and I’m out, thank God I’m out of the room, careening toward the curving staircase.

I don’t even register the lights flipping on. I bolt for the stairs, I’m right at the edge and I can feel the whiff of air behind me as he tries to grab me, and I scream again, twisting away and then …

He falls. He swipes too far and teeters off the edge of the top stair, and I fall back on my butt as he slams down the stairs in a horrible tangle of limbs, no time to grab the railing, no way to brace. The momentum and simultaneous crunch of bone send a lurching wave through me as I push away from the edge and he shudders into a heap at the bottom.

Someone comes running. Marcus. He skids to a stop, gun drawn, but he’s frozen, staring at Caleb, then up at me, sprawled and panting on the top of the stairs.

“What did you—”

“Baby! Oh my God! Baby!”

I blink, unable to tear my eyes from Caleb at the bottom of those stairs until my mother grabs my chin, yanking my face toward her.

“Mrs. Keane! Red alert! Get to the panic room!” Marcus shouts. “Where’s Mr. Keane?”

“He went out,” Mom says. “Oh my God, she’s bleeding!” Mom presses her hand against my neck. “Do something!” she yells at Marcus, and then he’s picking me up. I’m flipped upside down as he runs toward the primary bedroom with Mom.

“Inside,” he directs, shoving us into the bedroom, putting me on my feet so he can draw his gun again. “Keep going,” he says, when I hesitate in front of the big bed. “Toward the closet.”

The closet’s so big it’s like another room. I’ve never been in here before. Raymond’s big about a bedroom being a couple’s sanctuary, which, ew—but that didn’t stop him from putting the panic room in the bedroom.

“Go, go,” Marcus chants as he hustles us through rows of suits and Mom’s shoe collection.

That’s when I see it, out of the corner of my eye: an electronic pad set into the wall between Raymond’s suits. For a second, I think it’s the panic-room entrance, but then Marcus says, “Ashley!” sharply, and I see he’s standing at the end of the closet, where an entire shelf of purses has been pulled back to reveal the panic-room door. Mom’s already inside.

I stumble forward, the blood smearing down my front from the neck wound, and I use my clumsiness; I let myself fall to the ground. When Marcus rushes forward to help me up and set me on my feet, I get the perfect look at the electronic pad tucked between the suits.

Marcus shoves me into the panic room.

“Stay there. Don’t open this door for anyone but me or Mr. Keane,” he directs.

He slams the door shut, and as he does, a realization hits me.

Raymond’s safe doesn’t have a keypad.

It has a biometric sensor.

My bug is absolutely useless.

We need his fingerprints.

Day Six. Past Noon.

What we’re working with: 1 sling pack and its contents, 2 light sources, 1 Taser, Jill the machete, 3 Swiss Army knives, 1 collapsible shovel, 1 very angry boy and his dog

After the robbery, I start dreaming about the girls differently.

The dreams, they used to always be memories. The lived nightmares became sleeping ones.

But the new dreams, they aren’t memories. I’m there—the me I am now, the Nora me, the me me—but so are all the girls. They always surround me. They’re separate from me instead of being me. I can’t get free of their haunted circling.

Sweet. Silent. Smiling.

Dainty. Delicate. Demure.

Humble. Faithful. Modest.

Spirited. Sweet. Smart.

Spin. Bang. Slice. Run.

Lie. Hide. Fight. Fear.

Survive. Survive. Survive. Survive.

They never meet my eyes, no matter what I do to try to catch their attention. They repeat their words, not like a mantra, but a message. Like they’re trying to tell me something.

I can never figure it out.

There’s a rock jabbing into my hip. I’m awake again, lifting off Iris’s thigh as gently as I can. Looking at my watch—it’s nearly noon, we’ve got a bit of a wait and then it’s go-time—I get to my feet. I need to pee like crazy, and I’m not gonna do it in a mine shaft. Ew.

I grab my sling pack and Jill and leave the two of them asleep because they look even more exhausted in sleep, which shouldn’t be a thing, you know? Turbo watches me, but she sticks close to Wes instead of following as I crawl out of the shaft.

I walk about fifty feet away and then have to search around for a good bush to use, which takes another minute or so. I pee and clean up, and it’s only after I pull up my leggings that I realize there’s a weight in my pocket.

“You gotta be—” I dig in my leggings pocket, pulling out the locket Iris somehow slipped in there without me noticing. I’ve never taught anyone how to pickpocket before, but she’s got such light hands it’s amazing. She took to it like second nature.

I flip open the locket. Inside is a slip of paper, torn from her notebook. We’d agreed this was how we’d communicate if we needed to. So he wouldn’t overhear.

I unfold the message.

We can’t keep lying to him.

I stare at the paper, nestled in my palm.

She’s right.

It’s time. I don’t want it to be. I didn’t want any of this. But now, keeping it from him is more dangerous than telling him was before.

I turn toward the mine, taking a deep breath, steeling myself for it.

“Hurry up!”

My head snaps to the right. I drop down, wincing because I’m probably stomping in my own pee right now. Thank goodness for hiking boots.

That’s Caleb’s voice.

“I’m trying,” says another voice. One I don’t recognize. I peek around the bush to try to get a look at them. They’re heading south.

The exact opposite direction of the field and our carefully placed booby traps.

I tense, my mind warring with itself. What do I do? Draw their attention and run toward the field and hope I can lead both of them into a trap? Keep hiding? Run back to Wes and Iris so we can follow?

No. They’d notice if three people were following them. But one person …

“We need to get back to the girl,” Caleb says.

“She’s faking,” the other man sneers. “The wheezing’s an act. You didn’t hit her that hard.”

“We gotta be sure. If she dies, Raymond will be pissed.”

My hand clenches around my sling pack. In my other hand is the locket and Iris’s message.

No more questions. No more hesitation.

I have to follow.

Shit, Iris will be so mad.

Flipping the paper over, I dig my Swiss Army knife out of my pack, pulling out the tiny pen.

I scribble a message down on the blank side and tuck it inside the locket. Then I loop the gold chain around the nearest tree branch that’s around Iris’s eye level. Hopefully she’ll see it when she comes looking for me.

I pat Jill on my chest, set in her makeshift sheath on my sling pack.

And then I do the thing that I do best.

I fade into the scenery, and I follow the bad men.

Day Six. Past Noon.

What I’m working with: 1 sling pack and its contents, 1 headlamp, Jill the machete

At first, every step, I’m sure they’re gonna realize I’m there. But I keep a good distance from them and I stay down—my lower back is gonna feel like I’m eighty tomorrow—and when night falls, well, it gets a lot easier.

It helps that I’m used to this terrain—and they’re from Florida. Everglades are not the same as the Cascades. This is bear country. Mountainous. Rugged. Carved out by lava flows, not some flat-footed wetland you cover by boat.

They’re slower than they should be. Checking their compasses regularly to make sure they’re going the right way.

When darkness falls they flip on flashlights, which makes it easier to follow. I stay in the dark, using the growing moonlight and their lights as my guides. I use everything Wes has ever taught me about moving quietly through the woods. I focus on my feet, on the darkness, on my heartbeat. Anything but the fact that every step likely brings me closer to Raymond and away from Iris and Wes.

You should’ve brought the gun. But then they wouldn’t have it to protect each other.

There’s a certain point of adrenaline you reach where everything feels like a blur. I don’t feel inside my body anymore as we head farther and farther into the pines. The pain, the exhaustion, the blisters, they’re all there, but I can’t care about any of that if I want to keep moving.

And I have to keep moving.

Time—like the pain—doesn’t have a meaning, which is why it kind of startles me when their flashlight beams stop ahead. I slow down, keeping in a crouch, and I wait. My world narrows to those strips of light that start moving after a moment.

I wait a little longer and then I follow, slower than before.

When the fire tower comes into sight, I understand the reason for their pause. I drop back, watching as they walk right up to it and stop at the base.

I can barely see them from here, so I look around for an oak tree to scale. The bad thing about pine trees is they’re hard to climb. They’re all trunk until too high up. Oaks at least have lower-hanging branches.

I finally find one—too close to the small clearing the tower’s set in—and scramble up it. My ribs are not thanking me by the time I pull myself onto the second-lowest branch and straddle it. I have to hug the trunk to see anything from this angle, but if I tilt my head I’ve got a great view.

They’re standing there talking. Casual as you please.

I look up at the tower. Whoever was on watch duty at the fire tower isn’t there anymore. Rachel. That’s the name of the woman Iris was supposed to intern with.

Is she dead? Blackmailed or tricked away? I hope it’s blackmail or trickery, not murder. There’s a part of Raymond that doesn’t like mess, and I’d bet all the gold I stole from the bank that prison’s made him even more averse. He doesn’t want to go back there. He doesn’t want to leave evidence. And there aren’t any gators out here.

He’ll sooner trick you than kill you when you’re not important. It makes him feel smarter. Like he has the upper hand. It’s why what I did makes him so mad.

My eyes stay fixed on the tower for a moment as I wonder: is he up there?

I reject the idea as soon as I think it. He’ll want to be on the ground, ready to leap into action so he can kill me himself.

Did they bring her straight here? Is she hurt up there? Is that why she hasn’t tried to escape?

“If I don’t check in by thirty, the little bitch has killed me,” I hear Caleb joke.

The other one laughs. “She’d never get the drop on you.”

Already did, asshole.

“Keep an eye out. And don’t forget to feed her.” He jerks his thumb upward.

Caleb heads away from the tower, heading farther north. My heart leaps. That must be where Raymond is. Where their camp is. I could follow him. I could take care of this once and for all. Wait until they’re all asleep and lay a knife against Caleb’s neck first, then Raymond’s, and it’d be done, it’d be over.

I want that so bad, my nails dig into the oak bark, and when I snatch them back my fingertips are bleeding.

I am so tired of others being the making of me. And I think it’s what Lee and life has been trying to teach me all along: that our choices … those are the things that make us if we don’t want others to be the making instead.

So instead of giving in to that impulse that is all Ashley and Katie, the one that says kill, I stay put. I let Caleb go. I watch as the one left behind circles around the base of the tower.

It doesn’t have stairs like I’ve seen in some pictures of fire towers. This one has a ladder heading straight up. He pulls a backpack on, sticking a flashlight in his mouth, and begins to climb. I tense as he gets higher and higher—I’m positively vibrating when he disappears inside the one-room cabin set on top of the platform, overlooking an ocean of pines.

A light flips on above. The watch tower has windows on every side, of course, and I stare up at the light, searching for silhouettes.

Is she up there?

Barely five minutes pass before the light flicks back off and I hear the clunk of his boots as he begins to descend the ladder.

The idea hits me like a lightning bolt. I’m swinging down from the oak tree before the plan’s half formed. I tear Jill out of her makeshift sheath and run, full sprint, arms pumping. He’s coming down from the ladder, his back to me, oblivious. Six more rungs. I skid to a stop. Five rungs. I lift Jill. Four.

He steps onto the third rung … and right into the tip of my machete.

The flashlight falls out of his slack-jawed mouth.

“Don’t move,” I say, totally unnecessarily, because he’s frozen, his hands gripping the ladder tight, pressing his chest against it because otherwise his spinal column will part like butter under my knife.

I press Jill into the small of his back with my left hand and spear the fingers of my right hand through his hair.

“What the—”

I twist my fingers into a fist, jerk his head back, and then smash his forehead into the metal ladder rung. Three times, to be sure.

Stepping back, he crumples to the ground. Blood trickles down his forehead.

I flip on my headlamp and kick him over, liberating him of his rifle. I pull the strap over my shoulder and swing the gun to rest against my shoulders. I look up at the ladder.

It’s now or never.

“You better be up there,” I mutter.

I grab the ladder rungs with my blistered, poorly bandaged hands.

And I begin to climb.

Day Six. Dusk.

When I wake up, it’s dusk and she’s gone.

It’s like having a nightmare and then waking up into an even worse one. Thank you so much, babe. Appreciate that horrible shock as I reached for you and you weren’t there. I’m an idiot for falling asleep. For thinking she’d just …

“Nora?”

I say her name, but I know already. That sacrificial lamb streak. She waited for the right opportunity, she made us think we’d stick together, and then bam!

The Nora O’Malley special.

My heart’s beating so fast I’m afraid it’ll tear out of my chest as I shake Wes awake. Especially when I see she’s left the gun behind.

“She’s gone.”

We get out of that mine so fast I think I scrape all the skin off my shoulders in the process.

I want to scream, but I manage to quell it to a mutter as I follow Wes. His eyes fix on the ground as he looks for broken twigs or smushed grass or whatever he does to find things in the forest. Turbo dashes ahead and Wes snaps his fingers, bringing her back.

“Heel.” He points to his side. She sticks right next to him after that.

“She was around here,” he says, coming to a stop in an ordinary cluster of trees. I look around frantically as he does a slow circle of the area. The glint catches my attention, like the fading sun hitting a piece of glass.

“Iris, what are you—”

I race ahead, running toward the glint. My locket hangs on a branch, swinging slightly in the wind. Snatching it off the tree, I flip it open, shaking out the slip of paper.

Following Caleb. Headed south. Phase 2. Love you.

“Iris?” Wes’s voice is right behind me and I almost jump, I’m so startled. “What’s that?”

“My locket,” I say, tucking it into my pocket along with her message.

I thought there’d be more time. I thought she’d be here with me.

But it’s only me. Oh my God, how can it just be me? I’m not prepared. I would’ve written out notes or something. A script for explaining. How do I explain?

I know how this feels. It’s how I felt in the bank. Lost and discombobulated and scared as layers of a person I loved were peeled back to reveal something I didn’t know to look for.

“We have to grab all our stuff and go,” he says. “Her trail goes off this way.”

“She’s headed south,” I say faintly.

“Yeah, she’s—” He looks at me. His face totally changes when he gets a good look at mine.

“Iris?” His voice drops deep when he’s worried.

Deep, cleansing breath.

Oh, who am I kidding. There’s no deep-breathing my way out of this.

I love this boy. More than I ever thought I could. When I met him it was like meeting a missing piece of myself. He and I have walked so many similar but different paths. We have loved the same girl in the same way, and now we love her in different ways. He and I, we endure over fighting. But when we snap …

Oh, when we snap, worlds are changed.

But right now I’m not in his shoes. I’m in her shoes, and they are big ones to fill. I realize, numbly, that this is what she felt like when she had to do this. But she was fifteen and trapped, and I’m eighteen and trying to stay alive. I have to keep him alive. I promised.

It’s like we’ve taken turns at being the oblivious one, which would be funny, but it’s not. It’s really not.

“Wes,” I say.

“Iris,” he says again, and we stare at each other and it’s like he knows, even though there’s no fucking way he can imagine what I’m about to say. How I’m about to change things. And I hate that. That I’m about to give him the unimaginable.

“I need to tell you something.”

Day Six. Dusk.

What I’m working with: 1 sling pack and its contents, 1 headlamp, 1 rifle, 1 inhaler, Jill the machete

I crawl up onto the deck surrounding the fire lookout. My feet creak along the wooden slats. My hand closes around the doorknob. It’s not locked.

I step inside.

It’s empty. No guards. No Raymond lying in wait.

It’s downright unsettling.

Trap, my mind screams. They’ve trapped you up here. It was a lie. It was a trick. You fell for it. You idi—

My foot hits something, sending it skittering across the floor.

I look down, the beam of my headlamp illuminating the object: an empty inhaler.

That’s when I know: it was all real.

I take off my headlamp, keeping it on but in my palm as I turn slowly. I catch the shadow under the desk tucked in the corner. A space so small only a child could fit.

I bend down to her level, taking care not to shine the light in her face. Her eyes will need to adjust.

I know all about hiding in the dark from bad men.

She’s tear-streaked and dirty. It had to be hellish, being stuck up here. There’s a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich on a paper plate in front of her, only a few bites taken out of it. How many of these have they fed her? She might never be able to eat them again. Trauma’s like that, sometimes. Certain things haunt you. Sometimes they’re the most mundane details of it all.

The warm glow fills the fire tower. I let her see my face. I try to smile gentle, not sharp. I like kids. They’re way better than adults.

“Hi,” I say. “Are you Emma?”

She nods slowly.

“I’ve been looking for you. See what I brought you?” I reach into my sling pack’s front pocket and pull out the asthma inhaler.

Her eyes widen when she sees it. She snatches it from my hands like the lifeline it is. Her movements are clumsy from need but practiced as she brings the inhaler to her mouth and pumps the top, breathing in the medicine.

Her hunched shoulders start to relax as her lungs begin to work better. It takes a few minutes, but I can tell the relief it’s bringing, even as she scuttles back into her corner.

“You weren’t here before,” she says warily.

“I’m not with them,” I say. “They’re the bad guys. I’m a good guy.” Well, kind of. For the purposes of convincing the six-year-old, I am. “I’ll show you. Look what I have.”

I unzip the front pocket of my sling pack and dig out the charm she gave me. I place it in my palm, extending my hand carefully.

Emma focuses on the tiny gold dice in my palm. Her blue eyes go wide and then fill with tears of relief.

“Amanda!”

“That’s right,” I say. “Your sister sent me to come get you.”

Where it all starts

Eight days ago

Can you help Amanda?

Her tire blew out on Route 45. About fifteen miles past the gas station.

I can’t get her. In Chico picking up supplies.

I almost miss Wes’s texts. My phone’s set on my desk and my headphones are on, but I see my phone light up out of the corner of my eye and grab it.

Tell her I’ll be there in 20, I text back, and I grab my wallet and keys and head out, not really thinking it through much.

Route 45’s way out there. I sing along to the radio and tap my fingers against the steering wheel, and later I’ll look back and shake my head. Stupid, careless girl.

She’s not normal.

Don’t you know you’ll always be different?

Some of us are born targets. Some of us are made into them. But it doesn’t really matter which it is when you’re getting hit.

It’s ranch-land out here, acres of yellow grass and cattle, old-growth oaks shadowing the split-lane highway. It’s miles down the road before I see her car on the shoulder. I pull up behind her, making sure to give her room, and turn on my hazards.

“Hey,” I say when I get out. “Wes sent me to help.”

“I am so sorry,” Amanda says, hurrying up to me. Her hands are dirty and so are her jeans. “I thought I had a jack.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I wasn’t doing anything important. And Lee is like a Girl Scout, so she’s got a whole pack she makes me cart around.” I go over to my trunk and lug out the folding plastic crate in question. I pull out the jack and tire iron and follow her to her green Volvo.

“Is your phone in the car?” she asks. “My service was so shaky I wasn’t sure my texts to Wes were going through.”

“My phone’s in the car, but I don’t think we need to call Triple A,” I say. “I can fix it.”

“It’s the right rear tire,” she says. “I got the spare out already.”

“Great.” I bend down and set the jack in place, pumping up the car. As I get the tire iron into the first bolt, I see it: the hole responsible for the flat.

It’s on the side of the tire. Not on the tread.

And it’s a slash. Not a hole.

Something prickles down my arms, like an unknown spider making its presence known. I try to shake the feeling off, but I can’t.

“Gonna find my gloves,” I say. “Otherwise I’ll get all greasy.” I get up slowly, heading back to where I’ve set the crate. I scan the area as I rummage around in the crate. It’s mostly field around here. The houses are spaced far and few, cattle way outpopulating people.

I crouch next to the crate, rummaging through it as I think.

“You see anyone on this road?” I ask. “No one passed you?”

“I would’ve tried to flag them down,” Amanda says, leaning against my car and pulling out a pack of gum, totally oblivious to my tension. She holds out a stick. “You want one?”

“I’m fine,” I say, rising to my feet and turning in a slow circle, trying to make it casual and probably failing. I don’t care.

This is the perfect ambush spot.

“Where were you coming from?” I ask.

“I just got coffee at the gas station. I was thinking of hanging out at the park until Wes got back,” Amanda says. “Do you want to come?”

“Sure,” I say, only half listening to her as I scan the empty road and the land beyond it. “Was there anyone else at the gas station?”

“Yeah, some guys in a Cadillac SUV,” Amanda says. “Can you imagine driving down one of these dirt roads in something like that?”

“What kind of guys?”

She frowns. “I dunno? Older, I think. The one inside the mini-mart was wearing a really nice suit. Maybe they’re the guys who bought the Lawsons’ vineyard. I heard it was going for millions.”

My mind’s spinning with this information as I bend down and grab the gloves. Am I being paranoid and leaping to conclusions in my head?

I head back over to her car and crouch down. “Can you hand me the tire iron?”

I hold out my hand for it and it hits my palm as she says, “Sure thing, Sammy.”

My old name, it trips off her tongue so easily, casual as you please. Like she’s been waiting. Like she’s been dying to say it.

My fingers freeze, half curled around the tire iron.

My eyes fly up to meet hers.

She stares right back at me.

It slides something unlocked in my brain I didn’t even realize was there, let alone locked up, and all of a sudden I’m in the brunt of realization. It is cold and it is hard and it is immediate. And my reaction to the sudden knowing—the flash of recognition—is obvious and amateur hour, and I can’t help it, because it’s all at once and it’s too much and I should’ve seen it, I should’ve known.

I rise to my feet. We stare at each other. Both gripping the tire iron. I need to move. Wrench it from her. Hit her with it or something. I can’t.

Instead, my brain is going to explode.

She smiles a smile I’ve never seen before in her face, triumphant and a little cruel and a lot relieved.

“Should I call you Haley?” Amanda continues. I’m stepping back before I can stop myself, dropping my hold on the tire iron, my only weapon. She advances. Tire iron swinging at her side. The panic clamors. Step. “Katie?” Step. “Ashley Keane?” Another step. She’s too close. “Are there more? I thought I tracked them all down, but I learned early: you never know, when it comes to Abby and you.”

“Victoria,” I croak out. It’s the only name I can say. Her name. Her real name.

Victoria Cartwright. Daughter of Diana Cartwright. Victim of Abby’s and my first ever long con. The only women we ever pulled a job on. The only innocent people we ever conned. Every other mark was a criminal. But not the Cartwrights.

My job was to be the perfect, feminine Samantha. The opposite to Diana’s own wild-child of a kid. The kind of daughter Diana always wanted.

How could I have missed it? I see it in her face now, vague traces of the girl I helped con as a kid. Barely there, mostly in the eyes—she looks so different—but now that I’m looking for it …

Shit. I didn’t know to look for it. And now it’s all I can see.

She smiles. Mean. Hard. “I’d say it was nice to see you again, but we know that’s not true.”

I stare. A beat of silence where I don’t attack.

“I’m sorry, do you need a moment?” There’s a thread of nastiness in her voice that I’ve never heard. Not back then and not in the years—the three years—I’ve known her as Amanda.

“Victoria.” I croak it out like I’m on a loop. Do I need to run? Is she dangerous?

No, Nora, that’s you.

“I go by my middle name now,” Victoria/Amanda says.

“Right,” I mutter, just for something to say. I’m trying to buy time, but I don’t think there’s enough money or time in the world, because holy shit. This is what it feels like. This is what getting totally and completely long-conned feels like. It’s like I’m about to fly out of my body or explode in it.

This fucking sucks.

She’s played me for years. How long has she known? My mind’s racing through it. Is this a coincidence? Some kind of campaign? I feel crazy, like someone’s taken steel wool to my brain and scrubbed clean all the lies she’d somehow left, obscuring the truth.

We’ve been in school together since sophomore year. She hadn’t orchestrated that—unless she set the Iron Mountain fire that burned down her high school. I’ve met her dad in passing, but he can’t be her dad, can he? Her dad’s been dead since before my mom conned hers. Who is he, then? Who is the family she’s living with? She has a baby sister. I know she does. Wes has talked about her. Wes knows her family. Wes is all embroiled and oh God.

I trip over the selfish What does this mean? question and stumble right into Oh fuck, Wes fell for another girl who isn’t totally who she says she is realization, and I shift right from crazy-making to protect in a blink.

I react like I always do: a little too fast, a little too physically, thinking as I go instead of thinking it through. I tear off the work gloves and push her against the car, my hands on both shoulders. She tries to resist, and one of my hands slides right up to her collarbone, pressing hard against her throat.

“Why are you here?” I demand.

She drops the tire iron to slap at my hands, and her eyes widen as she realizes how strong I am because I don’t budge. If anything, I press harder. She miscalculated; I can see it in her face as I kick the tire iron away. She thought she had the physical edge.

I don’t look like it, but I’m hard to put down. And it’s harder to keep me down.

“Who sent you?” I demand, my hand tightening against her throat. “Was it Raymond? The FBI? Abby?”

With each question, her frown gets deeper and deeper. But when I say Abby’s name, she lunges against my grip so hard I almost lose it.

“Like I would go near that monster!”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” I say. But the girl’s got an Abby-sized wound where her heart should be. I can see it now.

I can see her now.

“Your mother,” she spits. “Prison is too good for her. She should be rotting in a landfill with the rest of the trash.”

“Wow,” I say. “I like it. I might steal that.”

“That’s what you’re good at.”

“You still haven’t answered my questions. Why are you here? Who sent you?”

“I live here,” she says, like duh, which is really annoying. “We moved here when I was thirteen.”

“Who’s we? Did your mom get remarried?”

“No,” she says. Her throat works frantically under my hand. “My mom didn’t get remarried. My mom got destroyed by your con. She spiraled after you two conned her out of the life insurance money. My dad had made sure we were taken care of, and she felt like she betrayed him. Like it was her fault when it was yours. She started taking pills. She OD’d three months after you and your mom blew town.”

With every sentence, my hands loosen a fraction around her. By the time she’s done, I’ve stepped away. I’m shaking. I didn’t know. I never thought to look the two of them up, and isn’t that terrible? Isn’t that selfish? They were innocent.

Victoria had been so brash but so small back then.

We had both been so small. So young and hurtling toward destruction.

“Shit,” I say.

“Don’t you dare—”

“I—” I stop, because I know saying sorry will mean nothing. I try to wrap my head around her story. “You’re telling me this is coincidence. That you just happened to move to a town over from me? Why do you look so different?”

“I got the shit beaten out of me in my first group foster home. Ended up needing nose and jaw surgery and an entire cheekbone reconstruction by the time the social workers pulled me out. I almost lost my right eye. A plastic surgeon at the hospital I was taken to, he did all the work pro bono. He and his wife did medical fostering after my surgeries. They adopted me.”

“I should’ve seen it; you’ve got your mom’s eyes,” I say, and she quivers under that truth. Her lower lip presses against her top, trying to hold it in. And she’s good—she’s had to be—but I might be the only person in her life who actually met her mom.

You can use that, that terrible voice of mine whispers. I need to buy time. I need more information. This can’t be some horrible coincidence … can it?

“So I’m supposed to believe that you got beaten to within an inch of your life, found some surgeon version of a Daddy Warbucks to your Orphan Annie, and you, what, tap-danced into a new and safe life fifteen miles away from me?”

“Well, I didn’t have a dog,” she says disgustedly. “But yeah, I got a second chance and a new family. I was happy. And then the Iron Mountain fire burns my high school down and I get bused over to Clear Creek High.”

“And there I am,” I say.

“And there you are. Some hair dye and a butch makeover won’t make me forget you. Plus, you still do this.” She holds up her thumb and rubs her pointer and middle finger over it, back and forth, back and forth. “Lee does it. I noticed. And Abby did it. I remember. She’s your real sister, isn’t she? Lee?”

I don’t say anything. The feeling of being watched, of realizing how closely we’ve been monitored, it settles over me like a spiderweb. I hate how seamlessly she transitions from facts to questions she absolutely knows the answers to.

This girl doesn’t ask questions she doesn’t know the answers to.

“I assumed Lee was a marshal or something at first. I thought about confronting you. I figured, if you were in witness protection, she’d take you away and I’d never have to see you again.” She smiles again. This time it’s not that hard, knowing smile. Instead, it’s soft. “But I kept watching her. The way Lee looks at you … it’s like you’re her whole reason for existence. Only a sister would look at you like that.”

I don’t like the way she’s looking at me right now. Too knowing. Too sure of herself. What does Lee have to do with this?

“Lee being my sister doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh no.” Amanda shakes her head. “It means everything that you have a sister.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. I want, more than anything, to get away from her, and I think I might have to hurt her to do that. The tire iron is right there.

“I have a sister, too,” Amanda says.

“I know,” I say carefully, because there’s something in her voice that’s different. That’s desperate.

“She’s six,” Amanda continues. She pulls out her phone and taps the screen.

When she holds it out to me, all thought of attacking her goes out the window.

Because on the screen is a little girl, sitting on a chair, her head stooped in terror.

Raymond Keane stands behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

How it all starts

Eight days ago

Amanda presses play. The video starts.

“Hold up the paper, sweetie.” His voice sends shivers down my spine. Run, run, he’s come for you.

The girl—Amanda’s sister—holds up yesterday’s paper, the camera zooming in on the date.

“Good job,” Raymond praises, plucking a Tootsie Pop out of his pocket and dropping it in her lap. She doesn’t move to grab it.

She’s already too frightened to move. Oh God, what did he do to her to make her that scared?

He looks at the camera. “There’s your proof. Now do as I say.”

The video cuts off abruptly.

“What is this?” I demand.

“You know what it is,” Amanda says. “It’s proof of life.”

“No,” I say. “If he’s here—”

“He’s here,” she says. “He’s been watching you. All of us. And yesterday he took my little sister.”

I keep shaking my head. I’m gonna get a crick in my neck. “Why would he do that? If he’s been watching us he knows—” I stop. “He’d go after Wes or Iris if he wanted to hurt me.”

“He doesn’t want to hurt you. Not yet. He wants to lead you into a trap.”

I keep darting between the phone and her face, trying to make sense of it, trying to put the pieces together, trying to understand the con if it is one. What is he up to?

“Why are you telling me this?” I demand. “Why did you tell me any of this? When did he take her? What the fuck, Amanda? Call the sheriff. Call the FBI. Where the hell are your parents?!”

“My parents are on a mountain-climbing trip for their anniversary,” Amanda says with the kind of hysterical laugh that only comes from panic. “They’re out of cell phone range. I’m in charge of Emma. They didn’t even ask my grandma to come down from Oregon to check on us, because they said they trusted me. And the third day after they leave she gets kidnapped because of you. Because I was too stupid to tell anyone about the real you.”

“Shit,” I say.

“Can you say anything but that?”

“I did! I told you to call the sheriff!”

“The sheriff couldn’t handle two shitty bank robbers, let alone someone like Raymond Keane. He told me he’ll kill her, and I really don’t think he’s lying.”

Of course he’s not. He’d tie her to the railroad tracks and find a top hat and a monocle if he thought it would help his cause.

Anything to get to me.

“Why are you telling me this if he told you he’ll kill Emma?”

“Because I’m going with the devil I know instead of the one I don’t,” Amanda says.

My eyes widen at the implication. I start to shake my head, but she keeps going. “You scare me more than him,” she says. “I see you. I know you. You out-think everyone. That’s the only way you survive. And you … you are cockroach-like in your ability to survive.”

“Nice,” I say, but I can’t disagree with her.

“You’re the only person who’s ever taken him down.”

Another undeniable fact. Fuck. She’s full of them. I hate her.

“So now you’re going to do it again to save my sister.”

“You’ve given me a warning. Maybe I’ll run. I’m the one he wants to kill.”

“No,” she says. “You won’t.”

“Won’t I?” I dare. “I’m evil, right? Some scary monster who’s haunted your dreams and then showed up in the flesh after you got a brand-new life and were breathing easy?”

“Shut up,” she says.

I don’t listen. My mouth twists. I go full mean girl. The meanest girl? She uses the truth to flay you. That way it doesn’t just hurt; it haunts.

“I bet for years, every time you saw a blond, you looked twice,” I say. “Do you flinch when you see those Alice bands? They were always too tight. They hurt right here.” I rub the spot under my ear. I can almost feel them again. “You took yours off when your mom forced them on you. That’s the only reason Abby put me in those damn things, you know. I was supposed to be everything your mother wanted. Everything you weren’t.”

“I mean it,” she grits out. “Stop it.”

My eyes drop to her clenched fists, and I smirk. “So you get to push, but I don’t. I don’t get to talk about how your mom was so worried about how you didn’t like dresses or so-called girly things. She was quite the homophobe, your mom.”

“I will hurt you.”

She’s not the only one who can throw painful facts out there.

“You need me, so no, you won’t.”

She crosses the space between us, getting right in my face.

“Let me make this clear,” she says so low her voice shakes. “There is no world where the rules are the same for you and me.” She spits on the ground between us. “You are a generational curse. You’re not even a ripple effect, Nora, you’re a tsunami. And you’ve caught a first-grader in your bullshit criminal wake, so you will get my sister back from your psychotic stepfather who seems to hold more affection for alligators than people most days.”

Fuck, I’ve never had someone put it that way. And I can’t run away from it because the truth’s right there, in video form. The truth’s right there, in girl form. My past is coming back to bite me like the viper I was raised to be.

“You’re going to do this,” Amanda says. “You’re going to save her.”

“I will go with you to the FBI offices—”

“No. If he thinks I went to the FBI, he’ll kill her.”

She’s right. That’s the problem here.

“You’ll help me.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll call the King County sheriff’s office,” she says. “They’ve got a cold case there. A body that got uncovered a few years ago in a mudslide. One Joseph Tennant. I think you know him. Knew him.”

Even after all these years—even after all that therapy—his name makes my hands itch for a knitting needle. I can still feel the gush of his blood under my palm. The way I had bolted, come to life like a toy that had wound down, only to find a last burst of mechanical energy.

“Don’t say that name,” I say numbly.

“I’m gonna do more than that,” she says. “They found female DNA on his body. I know it’s not Abby’s. They would’ve already tied his murder to her. That means it’s yours. You helped her bury the body, didn’t you?”

I don’t say anything.

Fuck her for always getting it right. Goddamn it.

“You help me, or I go straight to them. You think I don’t have your DNA? I’ve been in your house. You’re shitty about clearing out your hairbrushes. I should tell them no matter what—that poor man—”

“Don’t you dare—”

I grab her wrist, twisting it so quickly she lets out a shaky gasp as I push her against the car again; this time her shoulders hit it with force.

This time, I don’t hold back anything. Punishingly tight, fueled by anger.

“There is nothing sad about that man dying,” I say. “The world became a better place the second his heart stopped beating.”

“You’re not sorry,” she says, and she sounds almost confused. Had she painted me the innocent, unknowing accomplice? I wasn’t unknowing. I was innocent.

But I was my own protector first. I had to be.

“I will never be sorry.”

I let her go, because if I don’t I think I might kill her if she keeps defending him. Commiserating with him like he’s some sort of victim. Like they have something in common.

They have nothing in common. He was evil. Amanda isn’t.

That’s what makes this so fucking hard.

She stays flat against the car. I need her to stop talking. I don’t want to think about him.

“I’ve watched you,” she says shakily. “For three years, I’ve watched you. You’re not some sort of sociopath. You have empathy. You care about things—about people.”

“I care about some people. Iris. Wes. Lee. To a certain extent Terry. I was working on caring about you, but now here we are.”

“So deep down, it’s an act, you’re a monster like Abby.”

“No. But I’ll never be sorry. Ever.”

She’s staring at me, stricken, and I have to look up, away from her, to wipe at my cheeks.

Fuck this. Fuck her. Fuck crying.

I can’t seem to stop, though. Fuck.

“What did he … what did he do to you?”

“What do you think?” I snarl.

And she looks at me the way girls sometimes look at each other. That realization. Sometimes it’s mixed with understanding, if it’s happened to them, too. Or mixed with pity, if it hasn’t.

For a moment, she and I understand each other perfectly.

“Shit,” she says, suddenly my echo from earlier. Her eyes widen, taking it in. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” I wipe at more tears. “Yeah. See? Shit. Because this shit is hard, okay? You’re not the only victim here.”

She steps back, looking away from me and the proof of it all. And maybe this is the moment she realizes: you can be the curse and be cursed yourself.

“I—that’s … why didn’t you go to the police?”

“Because the police are oh-so-helpful. Are you kidding me? The only thing you do with a man who messes with kids is put him in the ground. And if you disagree with me, I don’t care. You weren’t there. You didn’t—” I have to stop myself again. I can’t stop crying.

“I’m not defending myself to you,” I say finally. “Fuck you. Did you really think Abby’s marks were all innocent like you and your mom?” I ask, trying hard not to let the bitterness mix with my tears. One emotional breakdown is fucking enough. “Please. You two were easy. A test to make sure I could handle the real marks. The criminal ones. And if you knew what kind of men she chose before me—” I can’t go there. Every time I think about Lee’s life with Abby, my fingers itch for a knife to gut my mother with. “You two were the only innocent ones,” I say. “You were practice. Abby needed to know I could sustain the con, not impede it. That’s all you were. A final test before my real life started.”

“You were perfect,” she says. “Do you know how crazy we felt after?”

“Probably about as crazy as I felt ten minutes ago.”

She stares at me, hopeless and ragged-breathed. “If I say I’m sorry he did that to you, will it even matter?”

“If I say I’m sorry about your mom, will it matter?”

She shakes her head.

“Same.”

It’s like there’s an ocean between us instead of a few feet of asphalt. She’s played her hand and I’ve countered, and now we’re swimming in the brutal truth: the only thing keeping us safe from Raymond is each other.

How the fuck did I get here in the span of twenty minutes? I was supposed to change a tire, and now my entire life is changed.

“You have to help me,” she says, sort of helplessly now that she knows her blackmail attempt won’t work.

“I don’t—”

“Emma’s innocent,” she interrupts. “You said me and my mom were innocent, and you were right. We were. But Emma? Emma’s six, Nora. She likes sloths and the color orange because she says none of her friends like orange and she doesn’t want it to be lonely. When my mom got pregnant I was so scared it would change things—and it did. I loved her so much, so fast. I didn’t know you could love someone that much. And if anything happens to her—if he hurts her—”

She dissolves at the thought, tears carving tracks in her foundation and contouring. “You have destroyed my family once already,” she says. “Can you please just help me save it this time?”

My mind’s being knocked around like a foosball, trying to put it together. Trying to figure out what he wants.

Raymond likes things simple. He has his cleavers and his rules, and he chops fingers off and then hands, and then you’re gone. He’ll tell you if you follow his rules, there’re no problems.

The problem is, his rules are impossible. Because all abusers’ rules are impossible. So you’re set up to fail. You’re set up to get hurt.

“What’s the plan here?” I ask her. “You said he wanted to lead me into a trap.”

“I’m supposed to convince Wes to let me come on the backpacking trip and separate you from the group when I get their signal,” she says. “They’ll take you, and then they give Emma back.”

See? He likes simple plans. Killing me deep in the woods would almost guarantee no one would ever find me.

“Why didn’t you go along with his plan?” I ask. “Why are you risking it to tell me?”

“Because he made it sound so simple. I get Emma, he gets you.” She shakes her head. “But it’s not simple. What about Iris and Wes?”

“He never mentioned them?”

“Never,” Amanda says. “Which means …”

“He’s planning on killing them.”

She nods. “If he doesn’t want any witnesses, he’s gonna kill me and Emma, too. All he wants is you. But he doesn’t know who I am. I thought at first he did and that’s why he targeted me. But no, he just thinks I’m the weakest spot in your friend group.”

It suddenly clicks for me. He didn’t choose her because she has a vendetta like him.

“He chose you because you’d be easier to turn than Iris or Wes.”

Amanda nods.

I almost laugh, because if coincidence is fucking me over, then it’s fucking him over more.

“I’m so glad you find any of this amusing,” Amanda snipes, so I wipe the half-grin off my face.

“I mean, it’s great for us,” I say.

“Us?” Her eyes widen. God, I am kicking myself. How did I not notice her eyes before? “Are you going to help me?”

“Well, from where I’m standing, I’m kind of fucked if I do, fucked if I don’t.” I shrug. “If Raymond is watching all of us and I don’t go on the trip, then he’ll change his plan and come kill me and everyone else. And if I do go, I’m gonna get kidnapped.” I blow out a breath, racking my brain, trying to wiggle through the jam I’m in. What to do … what to do … how to fix it … how to win … it’s a puzzle, Nora. All you have to do is put the pieces together.

“I want to know more. How did he approach you?”

“I was walking out of the pharmacy after picking up Emma’s inhaler refills, and this man got in my way.”

“Raymond?”

She shakes her head. “Someone who works for him. Kind of quiet. Sad eyes.”

That could be anyone. Incredibly unhelpful.

“I wasn’t really paying attention to his face, because after he asks me if I know where my sister is, he shoves a phone under my nose, and there’s a picture of Emma in the outfit I put her in that morning in the back of someone’s car.”

“What next?”

“He led me into a car.”

“You just got into it?” I can’t help but ask, slightly outraged.

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“So Raymond was in the car.”

She nods.

“And he told you to bring me to him on our hiking trip.”

She nods again. “He wants to strike the third day, so we’re far enough into the woods that we can’t get help.”

“What’s the signal?”

“A red tag tied to my tent flap the night before.”

“Okay,” I say. I rub my thumb against my fingers and then stop when I see her watching me. Fuck, I despise her.

He wants to ambush me in an isolated spot. At a time where me going missing for a few days won’t be noticed because I’m supposed to be backpacking.

That might mean he wants to get rid of my body quick and easy—the forest is kind of the NorCal version of the wetlands in terms of body disposal. They have alligators; we have bears.

But it also could mean something else. Especially because I’ve complicated things by keeping his blackmail file and putting a failsafe on it. I don’t enter the right passwords, the files get put up for sale and it’ll look like he did it.

He has to be worried about that—especially now that he’s free. If I sell the files, all the people inside them will come after him.

That’s why he’s playing this game, instead of murdering me outright.

He needs to grab me and keep me alive—and alone—long enough to torture my failsafe passwords out of me.

Iris will be so mad. She has a thing about me sacrificing myself—even temporarily.

But his need to get the passwords out of me … that would give me time. To escape. To con one of Raymond’s men.

To free the little girl they’d kidnapped.

“Wait. What’s the inhaler for?” I ask suddenly.

“What?”

“You said you were picking up Emma’s inhaler when the man came up to you.”

“She has asthma,” Amanda says, the dread in her eyes making them well up. “She’s got her spare inhaler in her backpack, but I don’t know if they took it with her. It wasn’t in the picture or the proof-of-life-video—”

“If she needs it, he’ll give it to her,” I say, hoping like hell it was actually true. But that adds—well, that adds a ticking clock. Asthma gets worse with stress, I know that much.

Fuck, I have to help her.

“What are we going to do?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, and her face falls. But then I add, “Give me twelve hours.”

“You’ll help me?” she asks, like she has to make sure. She’ll never trust me. She shouldn’t. No one should, really.

Look at what I am. Look at what I can do.

Look at what I’m about to do. My God.

I think she’s right; I am some sort of generational curse.

But here’s the thing: curses can be broken.

“I’m going to help you.”

The Roadblock

Eight days ago

I watch Amanda’s car disappear, and only then do I stumble to the side of the road and throw up the cereal I had for breakfast. My knees crash to the ground—luckily in the dirt instead of on the asphalt—and I kneel there like I’m praying, but I don’t pray.

I don’t believe in God. But I guess I have to believe in the power of coincidence now.

Fuck.

Is she lying? It lurks in the back of my head. Is this some sort of elaborate scheme of Raymond’s?

It’s too complicated, that nasty voice whispers. That voice that’s all truth, that’s all the girls, that’s born from years of living with Raymond.

He likes simple. Taking a kid to ensure one of my friends does his bidding is simple. But he didn’t understand how complicated Amanda is.

He never understands how complicated girls are.

I can use that.

It’s flitting on the edges of my mind like a bug spinning in the smoke above a campfire, furiously trying to get down to the light even though it’ll burn alive.

The solution to the puzzle Raymond’s put me in.

How to get everyone out alive. How to survive.

I want to have a panic attack right there and then, but I can’t. If Raymond’s bugged the car …

My entire body freezes up at the thought. At the violation. What does he have bugged? The house, somehow? The cars?

He could’ve cloned the phones. Read all our texts as they came in. It’s not like I talk to anyone but Lee.

That’s why Amanda asked me if my cell was in my car. Of course.

I breathe in and then out, but it does nothing to stop my heart from busting my rib cage up. My hands shake as I curl them around the steering wheel.

I have to act normal. He’ll be watching. If I tip him off …

Think, Nora.

I need backup. I can’t be stupid. Well, Iris would call it foolhardy.

My ears ring. My vision tunnels. Sure thing, Sammy.

Fuck.

I need to focus.

I flex my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to gain control.

First things first. I turn the key and drive.

I pull up to the print shop and duck inside, relieved to see one of the computers in the back is empty. I feed my dollar bills into the machine next to the ancient desktop, and the timer at the top switches on.

I don’t care what Amanda says about law enforcement. Well, I mean, I agree with her about the sheriff. He’s totally useless. But the FBI in Sacramento might not be. They’d at least have a search-and-rescue team.

Quickly, I type in FBI+Sacramento and get the site. I click around, mainly skimming as my mind tries to pull together some sort of plan. It’s starting to form in my head, something like Find Lee, get Iris and Wes, head to Sacramento, use the blackmail file to get the stupid Feds to do something, when I see it, listed right there on the page with the Sacramento field office details.

Special Agent in Charge: Marjorie North.

I snatch my hands off the keyboard like it’s gonna bite me. When did this happen? I click around, looking for the press release.

Two months ago. I’d been distracted with prom and graduation and, well, Raymond possibly coming to kill me. Agent North was far from my mind.

Big mistake. I clear the history and the cache and click out of the browser, before getting up and heading out.

Back in the car. Driving and trying to think. That moth of a plan seems further away now. The fire hotter.

But I’m cold. Practically shivering in June. I crank up the heat in my car and speed out of town. I’m in shock. I know it. You live my life, you get to know the feeling. But I can’t slide into it. I hover on the edges instead because I have to keep moving. I have to make a real plan.

I can’t rely on the FBI. I mean, when can you ever? But I could’ve at least traded some of the blackmail for help if it were anyone but North running the field office. She’ll have poisoned all the NorCal field offices against us. And LA is where she got her start. She’s got all of California cornered and I didn’t realize, and now I’m fucked.

So no FBI. No cops.

Just me and Amanda trying to save her sister and hopefully not dying.

Terrible odds, even if you never see me coming.

Lee would never let me. Wes will implode or explode or maybe both when he learns the truth about all this. It’ll be like after the forest fire, times a million.

Iris …

Iris.

My fingers drum on the steering wheel. I’m focused on the road as I drive out of town, streets fading into yellow grass and split-rail fencing half-finished in places. But my mind ticks steady, wound tight and ready to go.

Iris doesn’t want to leave. Iris will listen. Iris isn’t in love with Amanda.

Iris set not one but two guys on fire for us.

If you run, you have to tell me, she had ordered that night she caught me in the storage unit. Or I swear on my vintage, I’ll dedicate the rest of my life to running after you.

I could tell Iris.

We could make a plan together. We could be partners.

I pull over and pick up my phone. I look up, search for a landmark, and then I kind of laugh when I realize where I am.

Same road Duane Collins took us on when he tried to get away from the bank.

I mean, there’s only, like, two ways out of town, so it’s not really surprising.

Too aware that Raymond may be reading every text I’m sending, I carefully compose it in my head before I type it out.

I found a tent for our trip at the Collins place. But it’s not olive like you wanted, it’s black. That okay?

The three dots appear almost instantly, but they hover for a long time. I wait, breathless, hoping she’ll understand.

Finally, four words, after all that time:

Sure. Meet you there.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

That’s my girl.

The Partner

Eight days ago

The sun’s starting to set as I pull up to the cattle gate. There’s a padlock looped on a chain keeping it shut, but it only takes me a minute to pick it. I pull inside, driving down the dirt road, parking away from the barn. I leave my phone in the car and get out, sitting on the hood until I see Iris’s lights heading toward me.

She speeds up when she sees I’m already here, kicking up dust as she parks next to my car and opens her door. Her circle skirt flares around her as she dashes toward me.

“Nora, what—”

I hold my finger to my lips. Her eyes widen, but she stops talking. I hold up the receipt I had in the car, so she can see what I’ve scribbled on the front.

Leave your phone and purse.

She frowns, searching my solemn face, before she opens her passenger door, tossing her purse and phone onto the seat and shuts it.

I loop my arm around her waist as we walk toward the barn, giving her hip a reassuring squeeze, but I can feel her anxiety practically spike against me with each step.

We walk inside the barn. I’ve been back here a few times since Duane Collins tried to take me on a cross-country ride in his car trunk. I’ve only been back because Iris comes here sometimes. But I always sit next to her in the hayloft until she’s ready to leave.

I shut the doors behind us.

“Nora,” Iris says when I turn back to her. “You’re really freaking me out.”

I nod. “Yeah, I’m really freaked out myself. Sorry. I guess it’s gonna go around. Because we are kind of fucked.”

She waits. She doesn’t say a word, which tells me I must be losing it on my face as much as I’m losing it inside. I kept it all together to get here, and now she’s here and I’m safe and I can totally lose it.

But I can’t actually lose it. I have to gather my words. I have to find a way to tell her. My past has chased me down. But not the past we thought would.

Fucking ironic. Like that song Lee likes.

“When I was small, we pulled short cons for a long time.” They’re not the right words yet, but they’re the start. I’ve told her this before. I’ve told her everything. I put it all on the table after the bank. It was just as painful as the time I unpeeled all my lies for truth with Wes.

But with Iris, it didn’t change anything. We didn’t evolve into something else entirely. Instead, what we had got deeper roots.

She saw me. She stayed. I hadn’t realized until she did how much I needed someone to learn me and stay.

“The first long con we pulled, it was like a test, you know? To make sure I could pull it off and keep in … in character.”

“She needed to make sure you could sell it,” Iris says.

I nod. “So the first long con, it wasn’t on a man. She wanted to ease me into it. She chose a woman. A mother. An innocent person, not a criminal. Diana had a life insurance settlement from her husband’s death. A hundred grand. Mom scammed her out of it—convinced her to invest in a knitting store that didn’t exist.”

“I remember you telling me about that one,” Iris says slowly. “That one was … you were Samantha, right?”

I nod. “Yes. Samantha. Diana had a daughter. Victoria. You ever heard of a kid described as a pistol? That was Victoria.”

“Okay,” Iris says slowly. “Why are we—”

“Victoria is Amanda. Amanda is Victoria. They’re the same person. Just, you know, grown up now.”

She blinks. She frowns. And then she starts shaking her head.

“No … no.” She lets out a laugh. But I don’t laugh. I stare at her. “No,” she says again, more vehemently this time. “That’s—”

“Insane. I know. But that’s where we’re at, so I really need you to cycle through the denial phase that I went through about an hour ago and settle into acceptance because we are fucked.”

“That’s—What? She’s—You two were in school together longer than me and you! How did you—You didn’t recognize her?”

I shake my head. “She looks really different.”

“How did she get here? Is she here on some sort of vendetta? Have you accidentally inspired another vendetta, Nora?! One is enough!”

“I’m sorry, okay?!”

“Are you sure it’s actually her?”

“Yes.”

“What is she doing here?”

I feel utterly hopeless when I say, “It’s a coincidence.”

I guess that’s the thing: you can be smarter. You can be more prepared. You can be better overall. But sometimes fate just fucks you.

“That’s—”

“It’s Son of Sam getting a parking ticket that leads to his arrest kind of ironic.”

Iris stomps her foot. “Do not compare yourself to Son of Sam!”

It really is ridiculous how much you can love a person, because I really love Iris Moulton, standing there stomping her foot because I kind of compared myself to a serial killer.

“I didn’t mean—” I let out a breath. “I’ve done some really horrible things, Iris.”

She meets my eyes, and it’s like a stare-off contest I have no hope of winning. The sheer power of her belief is too damn much.

“First of all, you are not a serial killer,” she says. “And secondly, you were groomed and abused and coerced into doing bad things.”

“That doesn’t erase them. That just means there’s double the hurt.”

I can’t bear the look she’s giving me. Not pity. Only my own raw truth, reflected back at me.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

She closes the space between us with skipping steps that go faster than regular ones, to get there quicker. She wraps her arms around my waist, her head resting on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head, holding her back tight. If only I could stay here forever. I don’t even care that the barn is stinky.

“There’s more,” I say.

“More than one of the marks from your childhood infiltrating our friend group and dating Wes without us knowing?”

That’s when I tell her about Raymond.

And finally have that panic attack.

The Choice

Eight days ago

“Shh,” Iris whispers. She’s right in front of me, her hands on my knees. It’s the only thing I can feel, other than the horrible tightness in my chest. I can’t breathe, I can’t think.

He’s going to kill everyone.

It’ll be all my fault.

Run, run, he’s come, he’s here.

I should’ve run. I should’ve gone with Plan 1 and never let them know where I went.

“Nora.” Iris’s voice breaks through the spiral. “Can you name five things for me, sweetheart? Five things you can see. Come on.”

Her hands squeeze around my knees. I look down.

“Hands,” I say.

“Good, what else?”

She walks me through it. Bit by bit. Five things I can see. Four things I can touch. Three things I can hear. Two things I can smell. One thing I can taste.

She brings me back to the tilted ground, and then she steadies it, her hands on my knees the whole time, her voice calm and carrying me through.

Safe, she says without saying it. You’re safe with me.

We end up with her back against the stall, me between her legs; her circle skirt has so much fabric it’s a piece of cake. My back presses against her chest, and her arms wrap around me, her chin hooking over my shoulders as I try to get my breath back to normal.

“What are we going to do?” Iris asks. “We need to get Wes. Oh my God, Wes.”

I turn around, and it’s entirely weird to watch someone be hit with the same realization I had two hours ago. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” she says, hand against her heart. “Did Amanda … She didn’t start dating him because … She actually loves him, right?”

I don’t say anything.

“Right?!” Iris whisper-shrieks, her eyes stricken.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“Oh my God,” she says. “This is like a nineteen forties noir movie. This is insane. You’re the only person who’s supposed to have a hidden identity, Nora!”

“Technically Lee also has a—”

“You know what I mean!” She lets out a breath so great it puffs her cheeks out like a chipmunk’s. It’s the cutest fucking thing.

“Okay,” she says. “We have to tell him. We need to go right now.” She frowns, looking at the spot next to her like she expects him to have been there the entire time. “Why isn’t he here? Why didn’t you text him olive, too?”

She slowly gets up, gently pulling me to my feet. She marches toward the barn door, like she’s gonna get in her car and go get him and ruin his life and then … I watch it hit her all over again. She full-body freezes.

If I wanted to tell Wes, I would’ve texted him, too.

“No,” she whispers. She doesn’t turn around. She won’t look at me. She just says no in that horrible, cracked, I’m going to sob voice.

“We can’t tell him, Iris. When we leave this barn, we can’t talk about this, we can’t ever think about it. Or Emma’s dead. We’re all dead.”

“No.” She turns around now, looking at me like I’m an affront to God or something.

And maybe I am. Because this is terrible. This is unforgivable.

This isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever done. But I think it might be the worst thing I’ve ever done to him.

He and I, we put ourselves back together into something new and truthful.

And now I have to lie. Not a small lie like the stolen gold bars. And yes, I know, not everyone thinks that that’s a tiny thing. But my point is, this is a big lie.

This is the big lie.

This is putting him in danger.

Putting him on the line.

But telling him …

I can’t get away from the fact that telling him is even more deadly. For all of us.

“We have to act normal,” I say dully. “Raymond’s been watching us. If he thinks Amanda told me his plan, he’ll kill all of us.”

“Wes could do it,” Iris says. “He could pretend.”

“You weren’t there when he found out about me,” I say gently. “He loves her. He can’t get over everything forty-eight hours after finding out and fake it well enough.”

“He has a terrible poker face,” Iris mutters.

“I fucked him up,” I say, because that’s really becoming the pattern of today. Nora’s box of people she’s fucked up, coming to roost and destroying any chance of survival. “It’s not in him. He’ll give it away. And then we’ll all die, including the six-year-old who’s completely innocent.”

“It’s gonna mess him up more when he finds out we lied,” Iris says.

“At least he’ll be alive,” I say bluntly.

Iris sucks in a breath. “Oh God,” she says. “Do you think he’ll forgive us?” And that’s when I know I have her.

I immediately hate myself for thinking that.

She’s my partner. In this and in everything. That’s why she’s here with me.

She told me once that we were more alike than I knew.

I’m about to find out just how true that is.

“What’s the plan?” Iris asks.

I take her hand.

“First, we’re going to save Emma,” I say. “And then I’m going to kill Raymond Keane.”

(in order of priority)

Six days ago

6. My father (dealt with)

5. Wes’s dad (blackmailed by Nora)

4. Duane Collins (lit on fire; currently in prison)

3. Abigail Deveraux (to be determined)

2. Amanda Michaels AKA Victoria Cartwright (what the ever-loving fuck?!)

1. Raymond Keane (enemy #1)

Cave Springs Motel

Seven days ago

I book the same room. I need it to be in the same place Nora was born.

It hasn’t been remodeled since the last time I was here. The bedspreads are the same. Only the art’s different. Same chipped paint in the bathroom and the old TV set between the beds.

I sit on the edge of one of them. I set my phone on the desk, arranging it so I’m in view, and then I press record.

“Hi,” I say into the camera. I bite my lip. I had prepared everything I wanted to say, but now that I’m facing the phone, actually recording it, I feel like my guts are unraveling onto the floor.

“So, you’re probably freaked. Or mad. Or both. And I’m sorry. I really am.”

I take a shaky breath and stare at my hands, trying to gather myself.

“I wrote it down. It’s in the files folder. How it started. How I got cornered. How you need to get out in case he comes for you. I can’t tell you what will happen after I record this. But if you’re watching this, it means I haven’t got to the fire tower in time to stop the phone from being dropped off.”

Don’t let your voice crack, Nora. Get some goddamn control over yourself. If this is the last time she ever sees you …

“There’s a chance I could come back,” I say. “There’s a plan in the Northern Storage Unit. Bug-out bags, all labeled like you taught me. But it’s only a plan if I get out. If I don’t come back, I didn’t want you to always wonder … if it was a bear or an accident or … if it was him.”

I close my eyes. I count to three.

“When we talk about you in therapy, Margaret calls you a cycle breaker. It sounded cheesy and New-Agey to me at first, but I get it now. I think I understand you now.”

“You taught me that sisters were important,” I finally say. It’s off-script, but it’s the truth. “That they were precious. And Amanda’s sister … she’s a kid, Lee. She’s just a kid, and Raymond took her because of me. If I let it stand, that’s generations of people hurt with one con to get a hundred grand of life insurance. Not trying to fix that … what kind of person would I be?”

I wipe at the wet on my face. Totally losing control and I told myself I wouldn’t. I could edit it out, but what’s the point. She deserves me real, if this is the last time she ever sees me.

“You’ve always given me a choice,” I say. “You let me choose my freedom. My name. My future. And I think I’ve chosen right all this time, Lee, because I started asking myself what you would do.”

I give up trying to manage my tears. I don’t have it in me to do that and talk, and these … these are my last words to my sister. To the person who has done more for me than anyone in this world. I’ve never thought about last words before, and now everything I need to say is spilling out, in case I don’t come back to her this time. I need her to understand I was trying to be good. I was trying to be better.

“You sat in a restaurant once and you decided to save me,” I say. “That’s what you told me. And yesterday, I stood on the side of the road and my past hit me in the face, and it wasn’t that I decided to save her. It’s that when I looked at Amanda, I didn’t see the girl I conned. And I didn’t see the girl who conned me.” I lick my lips. Holding in the truth is like pulling a sieve through water when it comes to Lee, even when it’s on video.

“I saw a girl desperate to save her sister. I saw a girl who would do anything—risk herself, reveal herself—to save her sister. Sound familiar?”

I curl my arms around myself, trying to lift the burden.

“She’s you, Lee,” I say. “Amanda’s you. The girl who’d sacrifice anything to make her sister safe. That’s the thing I’ve learned: you can’t escape some things. Everything comes back in the end. Everything repeats itself. It’s just another cycle of sisters trying to save sisters. But this time I’ve gotta help break it, and it’s not because it’s my fault. Abby started this. But I think I’m the only one who can stop it. You need to trust that you taught me enough.”

I wipe at my face one more time. I must look like shit. This isn’t how I wanted it to go, but maybe it’s the way it should be. Just truth for a moment, because when I walk out of this motel room, like before, I become someone new.

“I don’t know how to end this,” I say, and I mean the video, but also … I mean this. Her and me. This life she gave me. The life that she fought for years to lead me to. “I just …” Deep breath, Nora. “I’m sorry. Thank you. I love you.”

I reach out and stop the recording.

And that’s it. My final piece of prep work.

I should go, but I end up in the bathroom. Cracked tiles still there. The mirror the same. My fingers curl around the sink.

It’s like staring into a memory. But there’s no Lee behind me anymore. No one to start Abby’s little ritual of naming that always came before the con. No words for what I’m about to do. How I’m about to lie.

It’s just me and betrayal. And isn’t that what my mother always taught me? You’re on your own. Be a viper, baby.

I take a deep breath, searching for something inside me, something to separate myself from what I’m about to do. Some words, a trio of traits, a different name, a mantra, anything to allow me to hold this at arm’s length, away from me like something festering.

But I’m what’s festering. In panic. In fear. In the knowledge that he good and trapped me.

And then, suddenly, there it is on my lips. Not traits. Not names. Not mantras.

A plea.

Survive this. Survive this. Survive this.

Day Six. Dusk.

What I’m working with: 1 sling pack and its contents, 1 headlamp, 1 rifle, 1 inhaler, Jill the machete, 1 small sloth-loving child

In the fire tower, Emma throws herself into my arms, her fingers curled tight around the charm from Amanda’s bracelet. It’s unexpected and unwieldy: I fall on my ass as she clutches at me.

“They kept saying one more day, but it’s been way more. I don’t know how many. I’ll be good, okay? Take me home to my parents, I’ll be good—”

“It’s okay,” I say, placing my palms on her back and rubbing in circles. “It’s okay. I promise.”

Don’t make promises you can’t keep. But I can’t help it.

I have to try to believe it. That I can make it okay. That she’ll be okay.

That Amanda isn’t dead in a ditch somewhere.

“Can we go home now? Is Amanda here with you? Can I see my mommy? Please, I’ll be good.”

“Oh, Emma, you’re awesome.” I shoot her a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes, because how can it when we’re in this situation? “This didn’t happen because you were bad.”

It happened because of me. But I’m certainly not going to get into that and confuse her.

“Did Amanda come with you?”

“Yeah, she came with me. We … we split up to cover more ground.”

“The man with the scar said I had to be good or I wouldn’t see Amanda again.”

“Don’t worry about anything that man said to you,” I say. “He’s a liar. He’s a … he’s a butt-face.”

She lets out a nervous giggle that encourages me.

“A total butt-face,” I elaborate, and it makes her smile wider. “Like, the buttiest butt-face who ever lived. Don’t worry about him, okay? You’ve got me. I am the only person he’s scared of.”

“Really?” This kid is smart. I can tell because she scrunches her face up in the first-grade version of skeptical.

“I know, seems weird. But it’s true. Last time he and I fought, I totally won.”

I look around the fire tower. We’ve only got so much time. The guy I knocked out will miss a check-in sooner or later.

“Why did you fight?”

“It’s a long story,” I tell her. “Maybe when we get down the ladder, I’ll tell you it while we walk through the woods.” I would absolutely not do that. Amanda would tear one of my ears off.

“Down the ladder?” Emma gulps, her smile gone in an instant.

“Yeah,” I say. “We’re gonna get out of here.”

Her worried eyes would put a kitten to shame. “No! No. Please. Don’t make me climb down there.”

She shakes at the thought, and my stomach clenches. I shouldn’t be surprised Raymond locked a kid with a fear of heights so high up in the air because it conveniently means there’s no way she’ll climb down, but damn, does my disgust never die when it comes to him.

That’s why there’s no guard up here with her. She’s too scared to run.

Butt-face is too mild a term, let me tell you.

“It’s okay,” I say. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I can’t go down the ladder!” Emma insists.

“Well, unfortunately, you have to,” I say, and the shocked look on her face reminds me that while I like kids, sometimes I suck at talking to them. Especially in situations where I have to coerce them into doing scary things.

I try to think of what Iris and Wes would do in this situation. Iris would try and make it into a game. Wes would throw her over his shoulders and climb down like Tarzan.

Hey. I could do that.

There’s rope on the wall. I could make her a piggyback sling. But would it freak her out more to dangle from my back? And then the solution hits me: Amanda said Emma likes sloths.

“Emma, do you know what a sloth is?” I ask, grabbing the rope and starting to uncoil it. I need a few pieces. Loops for her legs to go into, and then loops for my arms. I unsheathe Jill and begin to roughly measure before I cut the rope. “You know, those funny super-slow animals that have fuzzy old-man faces.” I squinch up my face to imitate one, and it makes a smile flicker across hers. “Have you ever seen one on TV?”

I slice the rope carefully, waiting for Emma’s answer.

“They like to hug tree branches,” Emma offers finally. “And they don’t have baby teeth. Just big ones.”

“I did not know that about the teeth,” I say. That was terrifying. “But I did know hugging is, like, in a sloth’s top-five favorite things.” I knot the pieces of rope together. This better work. “Hugging makes sloths so happy and safe.”

“Like when Mommy hugs me.”

“Exactly.” I shrug the sling over my back, stepping into the leg loops, a long piece of rope bracing across my shoulders that she’ll be able to grip.

“So we’re going to play a game,” I tell her, pulling the sling off and laying it out so she can step into the tiny leg loops I’ve made for her. “The make-like-a-sloth game.”

“How do you play?”

“All you’ve gotta do is step into these loops of rope,” I say. “And then I’m gonna bend down and you can climb onto my back. If you hug me like a sloth hugs a tree branch, I can climb down the ladder and you don’t have to do anything but be a sloth. You don’t have to look down.”

“What if I fall?”

“I won’t let you,” I say, glancing at my watch. I’ve been up here almost ten minutes. If I were Raymond, I’d have a check-in every fifteen minutes. We’re running out of time, and their camp could be ten miles away or ten minutes. “Are you ready?”

She looks at the rope and then at me. “We’ll go home?”

“I am getting you out of this forest,” I say. “I promised your sister. And promises are a big deal.”

“Can I close my eyes?”

“Yes. You can close your eyes the whole time. All you have to do is hold onto my neck like a sloth.”

“Okay. I guess.”

Relieved she’s going along with it, I show her how to step into the loops and pull them so the rope is around her legs and crossed under her thighs like a seat. I bend down. “You climb on up.”

Her weight hits me—she’s heavier than I expect. It takes a second to straighten because my ribs really hurt.

I lash the final piece of rope around my waist, knotting it tightly. I jump up and down a few times, and Emma clings to me tight, but the rope barely moves. It’s as secure as it can be.

“Here we go,” I tell her. “Sloth-time.” I screw my face up again, looking over my shoulder, hoping for another smile. But she’s already hiding in my shoulder.

I take a deep breath. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Shuffling forward, I head out onto the deck and into the night. It’s quiet. A sea of dark pines all around me. But I don’t stop to marvel or look. We’ve got to get out of here.

I won’t sugar-coat it: climbing down that ladder with Emma tied to my back is one of the scariest things I’ve ever done in my life, and I have been mired in some scary shit. But most of my scary shit just involved me, not an innocent kid.

It’s extra awkward because I have her on my back, so that means I have to keep the rifle I took off Raymond’s man slashed across my front. It keeps knocking against my knees as I climb down.

The silence of the forest is even greater this high up, and every ladder rung my boots hit echoes. The guy I knocked out is sprawled at the foot of the ladder, bleeding from his forehead. I can’t bring myself to care much after seeing how scared Emma was.

Emma’s fingers dig into my sides, her trembles vibrating through my rib cage.

“It’s okay,” I tell her again, because I can feel her breath quickening behind me. “Almost to the ground.”

My fingers sweat. Hell, my entire body is sweating. She’s a little girl, but she’s, like, forty-five pounds of scared deadweight against my back and I’m trying to be quiet as a mouse and move smoothly so the scared six-year-old doesn’t start screaming her head off.

About ten feet above the ground, I stop, shifting on the ladder to scan the area, searching for any light or movement.

Emma’s fingers clench into my sides so hard I grunt in pain. “Why are we stopping?”

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Keep your eyes closed.”

There’s nothing but darkness and shadowy pines for miles. All I have to do is keep going. Get on the ground. Head back to the mine shaft. Hopefully Iris and Wes will be there.

Iris will have told Wes the truth by now. I don’t want to think about it. I want to think he’ll understand. That everyone’s imminent demise might help along the situation, but I know Wes. I didn’t just break a promise or lie to him or put him in danger. I conned him. I made him the mark. There’s only so much forgiveness a person holds inside their skin, and I fear I’ve used much more than my fair share of Wes’s.

My feet hit the ground. I skirt around the unconscious goon, turning so Emma doesn’t see him.

“See, all done,” I tell Emma. “You did such a good job.”

“Can I get down?”

I shake my head. “It’s too dark. We’ll move faster if you stay on my back.”

“I’m not a baby,” she protests.

“I know you’re not,” I say, glancing down at my wrist for the compass. My heart jolts when I see the time. It’s past midnight.

It’s not only Wes who’s finding out the truth tonight. About twenty minutes ago Casey Frayn knocked on our front door and left a cell phone on the welcome mat. It was nice of her, to do me the favor. When Lee finds it, she’ll discover a video on the cell phone.

Time’s up. She knows. She knows I lied. She knows I cut her out. She knows I went rogue.

She’ll hate me. She’ll rage at me. And then she’ll get to work. That’s my sister. But I think it’s too late.

I think it’s up to me now.

“Let’s go,” I say to Emma, rolling my shoulders back, trying to lessen the weight. “Remember: sloths are quiet. So we’ll be really quiet.”

I check my wrist again, and then I head east instead of north. I put my weight on the back of my heels as I pound across the ground. Emma’s additional weight helps my feet sink in deeper, making marks in the dirt. And to really clinch the situation, I strip off the top layer of the bandage around my hand—the embroidered bandanna Iris knotted around my palm—and drop it on the ground.

Then I turn around, and we head back to the fire tower backward, in the tracks I just made.

“Quick, look up,” I say as we pass by the unconscious man. “Shooting star!”

“Where?” Emma’s neck cranes toward the sky, but of course I made it up.

“Keep looking,” I urge.

I’m almost past him. And then a burst of static breaks through the silence of the forest.

“Jason, check in.”

I freeze. Every single hair on my body rises as I hear Raymond’s voice coming out of the unconscious man’s pocket. I know it’s the radio, but my body acts like it doesn’t. Because he’s close. He’s out there. Run, run, he’s here, he’s come for you.

The thing that brings me back to reason is Emma’s scared shudder into my shoulder. I jerk back to myself, clumsily patting her calf in reassurance.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s only a radio. Keep looking at the sky.”

I need to move. I’ve got more than myself to worry about now. This is what I signed up for. This is what I agreed to: getting Emma out, no matter what.

“Jason, check in.” The radio breaks through again, impatient in the way that tells me this isn’t the first check-in.

I need to move.

But I’m frozen.

There’s a distinct, heavy pause. And then:

“Ashley?” His voice crackles around not-my-name.

Then I am moving. Toward it like it’s a siren and I’m a sailor.

“Ashley,” he says again. “I know you’re there.”

Does he? Is he that good? Or is he guessing?

My hand reaches down, my fingers closing around the radio.

“Your mother misses you, Ashley.”

I hurl it at the wooden posts holding up the fire tower.

It shatters.

“Much better,” I say brightly. “Hang on, Emma. We’re gonna run.”

Day Six. Night.

It took a long time to stop dreaming about those days of chaos and flame. My fifteenth summer, the world burned around me, and my world burned down just as fast.

My mom used to read a book to me. About this stuffed rabbit who wants to be a real one, and there’s a passage about how love is the thing that makes you real.

That’s what it was like. Being loved by Nora. It was like becoming real.

Ironic, when she was taught to be anything but.

Sometimes I dream about seeing her standing there in the smoke and her face changes, melting into others as I scream. Sometimes she runs into the flames and I chase her and I never catch her. I just burn.

I never stop dreaming about it. Even when we found a new way to be, Nora and me. I rebuilt my heart in the ashes as hers became a home for real, instead of for cover. But then the bank. Trapped in a room full of fire and smoke. The nightmares got harder to hide. Lee thinks it’s new, says it’s PTSD. Wanted to send me to a therapist. I told her I was fine.

But every time I close my eyes, I’m fifteen and driving up the Five again, flames on either side of me as I race to evacuate her. It’s like driving through hell. Embers on the road, flames licking over the already charred pines, firefighters crawling up hills like yellow bugs against the blackened earth.

I have no idea what hell is yet. God, I have no fucking clue.

The smoke’s so thick up her driveway, gravel skidding under my tires because I’m going too fast and I don’t have a license yet. I’ve stolen my dad’s truck—he’ll kill me—but it doesn’t matter because Nora’s there on the porch, bandanna wrapped around her mouth, four duffel bags next to her.

Later, I’ll think of those bags. The four horsemen of my apocalypse. What would have happened if I had grabbed the right one instead of the wrong one?

My life branches off in this moment, but I don’t know it. I grab the green duffel. Later I’ll understand it’s not green. It’s olive.

It doesn’t happen then. It happens later, when we’re at the hotel that everyone who’s evacuated ends up at.

We both stink of smoke. She takes her shower first. And while she’s doing that, I realize she needs fresh clothes. So I go over to the green duffel bag.

There aren’t clothes inside. Or any of the things you save in a fire.

There are guns. Cash. Two sets of IDs. And the names on those IDs are not O’Malley.

Suddenly I’m on a road I didn’t know I was taking. I’m past the sign that says POINT OF NO RETURN before I can even blink in confusion.

There’s no way back.

There’s only forward. It’s a nightmare for a long time. And then it’s not. Then it’s something different. Something that I always wanted with her, that I thought I had but didn’t, something I finally got in the aftermath: real love and truth.

But I think deep down, I knew: to love her—in any way—is to lose her.

I just never thought she’d finally do something so bad she’d lose me first.

Day Seven. After Midnight.

After I tell him, Wes doesn’t speak. He gets paler and paler the more I talk, the worse the truth gets, and then when I’ve finally run out of the worst of the worst … he turns around and walks away as Turbo trails after him. He walks away from the creek and the mine shaft, not toward it, which is a problem. So I follow right after him, of course, but he’s … not talking.

I have to break the silence.

It’s been an hour, is the thing. And my lower back is killing me and I really should change my tampon. My supply’s dwindling. It’s not good. But I’ve let the silence go on too long, trying to give him space to process, but there’s not enough space or processing brain power in the world for this shit.

“Wes,” I say finally. I give him at least a mile before I say it, in case he wants to make the first move, verbally.

He doesn’t look at me.

It’s killing me, especially because keeping up with his pace is hard. He notices that after a while, and he slows down. Which encourages me. That means he can’t be that mad.

But of course he’s that mad. He’s just decent and mad.

“Where are we going?” I ask after fifteen minutes.

“I do need to know at some point,” I tell him. “I have to change my tampon.”

That’s when he stops. “Go ahead.”

“Fine.” So I go and find a tree and do it, burying the used one because I can’t really do much else. When I come back, he immediately starts walking again.

“Wes, tell me where we’re going.”

“Remember that plan we had?” he asks. “Or was that part of this fucked-up fakery, too?”

Of course he’s still on task. A Boy Scout even in the mess that is all this.

“Right,” I say. And then I stop trying to talk and just follow.

The meadow’s only a half a mile more, so we get there fast.

“Let’s gather wood,” Wes says. “Small sticks for kindling.”

I keep him in my line of sight as I start to search for kindling. There’s a part of me that wonders if he would run off on me. And then I immediately know he wouldn’t.

That decent streak, you know.

We build the fire near the northern trap, one of the smaller ones because we don’t want to kill anyone. We want to question them. I make sure to layer a bunch of fresh pine boughs on the fire—the smoke is much worse that way.

“C’mon,” Wes says, pulling me away from setting the food wrappers like breadcrumbs leading right to the trap.

We position ourselves in the trees, in the shadow of one of the big pines. If you peek around the trunk, you’ve got the perfect view into the meadow.

“Get some rest,” Wes says. “I’ll wake you up if someone comes.”

But I’m wide awake and I can’t really hide it, jammed up shoulder to shoulder with him against this tree. I can’t talk to him. I don’t know what to say. Because the second I told him, I knew Nora had been right: he would’ve never been able to pretend his way through this.

He would make a terrible con artist, Wes.

“How could you do this?” he asks quietly. Finally. It’s been hours of silence and the grudging warmth from our shoulders reluctantly pressed together.

“Did you think better of me?” I don’t want it to come out scathing, but maybe it does a little, because isn’t it kind of a scathing question? Doesn’t my answer deserve to be?

I won’t be put on a pedestal. I’ll burn it down.

But then, because he’s him, he turns it around in his honesty and just breaks me.

“I was hoping you’d think better of me.”

I lean harder into the line of him. A press of comfort because I know he needs it. Because Nora’s usually on the other side of me and I’m usually in the middle of them, but she’s gone and I know we’ve lost hold of too much.

“I think the world of you,” I tell him. “But you kept me in the dark before the bank robbery for over a year.”

“I didn’t know you two were together back then. You know how I feel about—” He stops, stricken, and I can see it in his face, how he’s working through it even now. How does he feel about Amanda now there’s a “before”?

“That’s why I couldn’t tell you,” I say, hating how neatly I’ve trapped him. I could say I didn’t mean to, but I don’t think that’s true.

I think I’ve learned, maybe too well, some of Nora’s lessons.

“She was right. You couldn’t have pretended,” I say. “I love you, Wes, but you wear everything on your face. This time, you were the liability.”

He flinches. I put my hand on his bent knee and squeeze.

“I’ve been the liability,” I say, because it’s a terrible place to be. “In the bank, I didn’t know enough. I wasn’t strong like you. I wasn’t outsmarting anyone like Nora.”

“Iris, you saved her in that barn.”

“You know, I almost wore a pencil skirt that day?” I’ve never told anyone that. Sometimes I have pencil-skirt nightmares where I don’t have a petticoat to light on fire and Duane Collins kills her instead. “I would’ve totally been screwed if I’d worn a pencil skirt. A fashion choice and me being bloated from my period saved her. It wasn’t anything that I—”

“Iris, if you didn’t have the petticoat, you would’ve thought of something else. I know it.”

Even after everything, he has that faith in me. I don’t know how he manages that.

“Yeah, I guess you know me,” I say, and he lets out a breath. Because that’s the thing: they both know me.

I never had to hide like they did.

“You’re getting really good at backing me into a corner, Moulton.”

“Well, sometimes you need to be cornered … O’Malley.”

His head jerks toward me when I call him that, instead of Prentiss, and I meet his eyes. Some truths, they have to be called out to be real.

“Isn’t that really what you are?” I ask him. “You’re theirs, more than your parents’. You have been for years.”

“So?” His voice goes guttural. Fighting for control.

“If you love her that much,” I say. “If she is that important. Can’t you give her some credit? That she did what she had to?”

“Are you talking about Nora or Amanda?”

“I’m talking about both of them,” I say. “Do you love her? I’m talking about Amanda. I know you love Nora.” What I don’t know is if he’ll forgive her, if we survive this. If he’ll forgive me.

He shakes his head. “I’m not talking about this with you, Iris. I’ve had enough mind-fucks. Go to sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. When he won’t look at me, I shift, so I’m in front of him, my blistered hands on his knees. “I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m sorry for my part in it. I’m sorry we’re in this situation. We couldn’t see another way.”

“The FBI—”

“Marjorie North is in charge of the Sacramento office.”

It’s like I’ve sucked the air out of our pocket of forest. “When did that happen?”

“I don’t know. But it’s what stopped Nora from going to them.”

“Of course it did,” Wes says. “Shit.”

“I really am sorry—”

“I get it,” Wes says. “Not … I don’t get what you did. I am so fucking mad that I—” He places his hands gingerly over mine on his knees. “I get that you’re sorry, Iris.”

“Okay,” I say, because if I keep apologizing I think it’ll upset him more.

“You should sleep,” he says again, but I shake my head, tilting it so I can see the meadow.

“We’re in this together,” I say. “From now on: only truth.”

I turn my hands so we’re palm to palm like a curious sort of prayer. He has no reason to believe me. But it’s the only thing I can offer.

“Only truth,” he agrees.

Day Seven. After Dawn.

At the Meadow

“Wes!”

I lift off Iris’s shoulder. Pink light filters through the trees. The sky’s almost blue; it’s getting so light.

For a second, I don’t remember. It makes it shittier when I do.

God, I hope they’re okay. If they’re together, they have a better chance. If they’re together, they might tear each other apart before Raymond does.

What does it say about me, that this keeps happening? That I keep falling for girls who aren’t who they say they are?

I’d be kidding myself if I didn’t see the similarities beyond the lies. They’re both strong. They’re both leaders. They both never listen.

Am I draw to strength? To danger?

Or am I drawn to the loss in them because there’s so much in me?

“Wes.” Iris nudges me hard. She jerks her head toward the meadow. I crane my neck to see.

There’s a guy creeping toward what’s left of the fire.

Wait, I mouth to Iris, and she nods. We watch through the trees as he gets closer. He doesn’t have a gun out—I don’t see a rifle strap across his chest. He must be packing something smaller.

A few more steps.

I can almost hear Grandpa’s voice. They never see it coming, kiddo.

I can see Iris mouthing something—I think it’s Oh my God—with each step the man takes, almost like she’s not aware she’s doing it.

“Ahhh!”

He goes down. My heart leaps in my chest. A painful reminder it’s still there and not pulverized like I thought. Until that very second, I wasn’t sure it would work. The booby trap. And maybe my heart, a little.

“It worked!” Iris says. “Oh my God!” She hugs me. “Wes! You’re a genius!”

I pull away from her. “We need to move.” I grab the gun. “Turbo stays here with you. I’ll circle around the field, come at him from the back. I’ll disarm him, and then we’ll question him together.”

Iris nods.

“Don’t come out until I signal,” I tell her. “And Iris …” I swallow. “If something happens, you run back to the mine shaft.”

“Wes—”

I shake my head. “You run.” I get to my feet before she can argue. “Stay, girl,” I tell Turbo. I pat her on the head; her floppy ears are like velvet scraps.

I head off.

And just like that, my heart starts knitting itself back together.

That’s the thing about a Frankenstein heart: it does what it must to survive.

Day Seven. Before Dawn.

What I’m working with: 1 sling pack and its contents, 1 headlamp, 1 rifle, 1 inhaler, Jill the machete, 1 small sloth-loving child

The darkness slows me and Emma down majorly. What would be a five- or six-hour hike in the daylight is going to take me until past dawn to get back to the creek. While it delays my inevitable confrontation with Wes, it makes me worried we’re not making good enough time. What if they catch up with us?

“You’re doing great, Emma,” I tell her. “How’s your breathing? Do you need an inhaler break?”

“I need to go to the bathroom,” she says.

“Okay,” I tell her, even though keeping moving would be my preference. “Give me a second to find a good place.”

“Are we gonna see Amanda soon?”

“We’ll be back to Wes and Iris soon,” I say.

“And Amanda?”

“Yep,” I say, because I am not getting into a Your sister got herself kidnapped because of you thing with a stressed-out six-year-old.

I spot a cluster of bushes slightly off direction. Perfect. I stride over to them and help Emma out of the piggyback sling. I fish out a precious wet wipe from my sling pack. “Here you go. But don’t throw it away. Bunch it up and give it back to me.”

“Ewwww.”

“I know,” I say. “But we can’t leave any signs we were here. And it’s not good for the forest to leave trash all over.”

She goes behind the bush and does her thing, coming back with the wadded-up wipe. I take it from her and stash it in the back pocket of my sling back, pulling out the hand sanitizer.

“Palms up,” I say.

She holds out her hands and I spray them, front and back, and then do my fingertips under the bandages.

“Rub them together and shake them dry.” I show her, careful not to actually rub my blistered hands together, and when she imitates, my heart kind of flips because it’s really cute because she shakes her legs, too, like she’s trying to dance. Or maybe wiggle all the anxiety out.

“Good job,” I say. “High-five.” She smashes her palm against my wrapped one.

“So I have something for you before we get back on the move,” I tell her, pulling out the Swiss Army knife. “It’s very special. It can be all sorts of things, but right now this is what we’re gonna focus on.” I flip open the blade. “I know your mom probably told you not to play with knives.” That seems like something a good mom would tell a kid, right?

“They’re sharp,” Emma says, staring at the blade.

“They are.” That’s why we like them. I resist saying it. “So normally we don’t play with knives. But … um … the rules are different in the forest.”

“Really?” She sounds entirely skeptical. Smart kid.

“Yes,” I say, trying to sound confident instead of scared that I’m about to give a six-year-old a lesson in stabbing people. “In the forest, the rules are if one of the bad guys tries to grab you, you take this.” I shift the knife in my hand so I’m grasping the handle. “And you …” Don’t say stab. Don’t say stab. “You jab them with it. You jab them over and over again until they let you go. Then you run. And you never drop the knife.”

Her eyes widen.

“The best places are right here.” I touch my neck where the carotid artery is. “Here.” I touch my belly. “Or if their face is close enough, right here.” I point to my eyes.

I flip the blade closed and hand her the knife. “Now try for me. Pretend like the blade’s out and jab me.”

To her credit, she doesn’t hesitate. This is why I like little kids even when I don’t know how to talk to them. They’re instinctual. They go with their guts.

She thrusts forward, her fist sinking into my stomach along with the hilt of the knife. She puts all her force into it, so it actually hurts because of my ribs.

“Oof!” I don’t have to exaggerate the noise a lot. The gleam in her eyes tells me it was the right move.

“Good job,” I say. “Now let’s try the neck. You’ve gotta choose your moments, you know? You’d go for someone’s stomach if they were standing up.” I demonstrate. “But if someone is bending down to you—” I crouch—“you can go for the neck or the eyes.”

Before I can finish the sentence she’s driving the blunt handle of the pocket knife into my neck. Right where I told her.

“Amazing,” I wheeze, resisting the urge to rub at the red mark on my neck. “You’re a natural. Now the important part: can you pull the blade out of the sheath?”

I show her how to pluck the knife attachment out, but when she tries, she doesn’t have the dexterity or grip strength in her fingers. Her lower lip sticks out farther with each frustrated attempt.

“I can’t do it.”

“It’s okay,” I say. I grab the extra length of rope I took from the fire tower and unravel a thin piece from the braided length. Then I flip the Swiss Army knife open, winding and knotting the rope around the top to fashion a sort of knife necklace for her. That way the blade was out and in easy reach. Plus it was facing down like you are supposed to carry a knife, so … kind of safe. “Here we go.” I hang it around her neck. “I bet you’ll make a new fashion statement.”

“Does it hurt to get jabbed?” she asks as I step into the piggyback sling and bend down so she can clamber onto my shoulders.

“It does,” I say, because if I lie to her and then she stabs one of them, she might get too scared to do it again. “That’s the point.”

She’s too young to get the pun. Iris would’ve laughed. Wes would’ve rolled his eyes. I just miss them.

I shift her weight on my back. The muscle pain is really nothing compared to the rib I’m almost positive is broken, so I’m flying high on determination and the knowledge that if we don’t keep moving they’ll catch up with us.

I can’t move through the forest without a trace like Wes. They’ll be able to follow me. At least if they catch up, I’m armed this time.

“Tell me another sloth fact,” I say, though I’m worried she’ll run out of them. Maybe there’s another animal she likes. I’ll ask her once we reach the sloth-fact threshold.

“They sleep a lot,” Emma says.

“Yeah? How long?”

“Hours and hours,” Emma says. “Longer than people. Unless the person is really lazy.”

“Sounds like a good life.” I wonder if I’ll ever sleep in a bed again. I miss pillows. I don’t miss blankets right now because it’s hot as hell and I sweated through my clothes hours ago. There’s so much chafing going on, I don’t even want to contemplate it. “So they like to swim.” I start to tick the facts she’s rattled off on my fingers. “They like fruit. And they really like to sleep. Anything else about the mighty, sleepy sloth?”

She opens her mouth—presumably to give me another factoid—when a crack cuts her off.

“Huh!” Emma lets out a startled breath.

The rifle’s up against my shoulder. The movement isn’t smooth. The gun’s too big for me, and the balance feels off because of it. But it’s something.

“Shhhh,” I hush her as I creep forward, toward the echo of the sound.

Has Caleb found one of us? I pick up the pace, scanning ahead as Emma clings tight to me, falling silent like she’s already learned my body language. I can feel her fist pressed against the small of my back between us, and it takes me a second to realize she’s clutching the knife necklace I made her.

I slow down. I need to go back. I can’t run toward gunshots when Emma’s with me. I need to run away from them. What am I thinking?

Emma was an idea before. A shakily noble one, I guess. But now she’s real. Now she’s clinging to my back like a sloth, and I am too aware of how tiny she is, how fragile.

I know there had to be a time I was small like her, I was innocent like her. I just can’t remember. Abby broke me into pieces and glued them back together, and I grew harder and fiercer each time. It was the only way.

I whirl to go back, but a flash of red out of the corner of my eye makes me pause.

I almost didn’t see him lying there. He’s in camo fatigues, blending in. The only reason I do see him is because his cap’s askew and his hair is red. It shines bright against all the brown and green.

And the blood pooling under his head shines dark.

“Emma, don’t look,” I whisper. I glance around, but whoever shot him is already gone. “Keep your eyes closed.” She nods quickly, keeping her eyes screwed shut.

I bend down. It’s not my first dead body, but I don’t think anyone can see something like this and not want to hurl.

His eyes are open. My hand shakes as I reach out and close them. I clear my throat, jerking my hand back as fast as I can.

His skin is warm.

Search his pockets. It feels like a scum-of-the-earth thing to do, but he might have something. A weapon. A radio. Anything.

But there’s nothing.

He’s not dressed like the others were. I look down at his boots. They’re not new. Marcus had been wearing new boots. Like he’d bought them for the trip. So had the other one. And they’d been in dark clothes. Cargo pants and long-sleeved shirts, knit caps. Not hunting caps like this one.

This man, his stuff is well worn. Well used. Fitting to the terrain.

Is he a hunter in the wrong place at the wrong time?

“Can I open my eyes yet?” Emma asks.

I don’t have time to wonder or linger. We’ve got to get out of here.

“Almost,” I say, starting to straighten. That’s when I see it: the edge of a piece of paper under his boot. I knee-walk to his feet and lift the left one.

It’s not a piece of paper.

It’s a photo. Of me.

For a second, I stare at the photo. My brain fills in the gaps like a compulsion: long lens, taken at a distance, at least a hundred feet, but clear enough to see every feature; flip it over, Nora.

I turn it over.

There’s one word scrawled on the back.

TARGET.

Day Seven. After Dawn.

What I’m working with: 1 sling pack and its contents, 1 headlamp, 1 rifle, 1 inhaler, 1 creepy photo of myself with TARGET scrawled on the back, Jill the machete, 1 small sloth-loving child

I stumble away from the body, the photo of myself clutched in my fist. When I’m a safe distance away, I look back down at it.

“What’s that?” Emma asks. Her sharp chin digs into the muscle where my neck and shoulder meet.

I tuck it into my pocket. “Just some trash.”

“And we don’t leave trash in the forest,” Emma says.

“Exactly,” I say, trying not to think about how if Emma joins Girl Scouts or goes camping after this, she’ll have some strange ideas about what’s allowed in the forest and what’s not. “We’re gonna move fast again, okay?”

They’ve got to be close.

I want to put as much distance between me and the body as I can. Was Raymond picking off his own men? I could say he’s done it before, but Caleb rising from the not-dead made me a little more skeptical. Something isn’t right. I can’t put my finger on why … or if it matters.

It’s getting harder and harder to focus on my thoughts and move at the pace that I need to. All my energy—mental and physical—needs to be put into each step, each breath, each pounding heartbeat that says: survive this.

“Nora?” comes her voice behind me.

“Yeah?”

“Is he gonna kill us? The man with the scar?”

And just like that, I’m standing still again. The skin of my lips cracks under the pressure when I press them together, trying to hold it in. I can taste the blood.

I reach up to my shoulder and squeeze Emma’s hand.

“He’s not getting near you,” I promise. “And remember: he’s a butt-face.”

This time it doesn’t make her laugh. But she says, small but assured, “And you beat him before.”

“I did,” I say. I want to tell her something brave, like, And I’ll do it again or He doesn’t have a chance.

But he has all the chances. And ever since I met him, I’m just reacting, reacting, always reacting to him.

It’s time to stop reacting.

It’s time to start attacking.

Day Seven. Dawn.

At the Meadow

I keep a tight hold on Turbo’s leash as Wes disappears through the trees. I turn my focus back to the man caught in the booby trap. He’s swearing, pushing out of his slump and panting from the pain. He struggles to free his foot and makes it worse. Sweat flies off his bald head as he groans.

Wes moves across the meadow low to the ground, moving faster than seems possible because Wes is big. He’s a force, and now he’s moving like a bullet through the grass, hyper-focused and tensed, a gun too-natural in his hand and fear on his face. That’s natural, too, I guess.

“Come on,” I mutter. “Oh shit.”

The man flails in the hole, and out of the corner of his eye he must see something because he lurches back—and spots Wes.

Oh my God. I dash forward, spear in hand, Turbo at my heels. I let out a hellish scream that I shouldn’t, all things considered. But it works, because the man’s attention snaps toward me for a split second, long enough for Wes to settle the gun against the back of his head.

I almost trip running toward them. That would’ve ended with me getting impaled on my own spear, so thank God that doesn’t happen. My heart’s pounding so hard I can feel it in my face. It feels too big, like fear’s given me chipmunk cheeks.

“Don’t move!” I demand. It comes out kind of like a chipmunk squeak. Not impressive at all.

“What the hell?” the man yells. “You … did you …” he pants, trying to breathe through the pain. “Did you fucking kids set this? What is wrong with you?”

I’m certainly not going to answer that.

“Search him,” Wes says.

There’s a gun strapped to the leg of his impaled foot. I pull it free. I take the knife on his belt, too.

I can’t check his ankles unless we pull him out of the booby trap, which is a problem because tricky people like to hide things in their boots. Nora certainly does.

He can’t hold himself totally stiff—he trembles as I pull another knife out of his jacket pocket.

“Switch,” Wes says, and we move at the same time, so I’m at the man’s back and Wes is at his front. It’s like we suddenly understand each other perfectly, and it’s giddy-making, being so seamless with someone, being on the same page, the same breath, the same intent.

I yank the final gun tucked in his waistband, and then I go for his back pockets.

“Where’s your camp?” Wes demands. “Where’s Raymond holed up?”

“Raymond?” the man echoes, sounding genuinely confused. “I don’t know any Raymond.”

“There’s no point in lying,” Wes says.

“No, man, you’ve got it wrong. I don’t know a Raymond. I’m just a hunter—”

“A hunter armed with handguns?” Wes says. “Come on, man.” He lets out a disgusted noise.

“No wallet,” I say. Not really a surprise. “But there’s this in his pocket.” I unfold the paper. My eyes snag on the letterhead. And then I’m staring, bug-eyed, and then I’m about to throw up.

“Iris?”

“Wes,” I say numbly, shoving the letter at him. There’s a fancy compass on the top, like the ones you see on antique maps and the initials M.N. below it.

Nora always tells me to trust my gut. That instinct is honed the more you rely on it. And I have certainly had to rely on it, the past few days.

Target

Natalie/Nora/Ashley. See enclosed photo. 18. Bobbed dark hair. Blue eyes. Consider her armed and highly dangerous.

Do not engage verbally. Physical engagement only.

DO NOT CARRY SHARP OBJECTS AROUND TARGET. She is a skilled pickpocket.

Acquire target, secure her by any means necessary, and bring her to home base.

Secondaries

Wesley Prentiss: 18. Blond. 6’2”. Hiking and hunting experience. Physical threat. Put him down if needed to get to target. Non-lethal means only.

Iris Moulton: 18. Brunette. Non-threat. Deep emotional investment in target but may get left behind by group as weak link in dangerous situations.
Non-lethal means only.

I don’t wait for Wes to read the instructions scrawled below the initials. I grab my spear. It’s in my hand. I jostle Wes out of the way. I don’t even think deeply about it, which is a little scary, but I’ll deal with that when I am not in perilous danger. I flip the spear and settle the tip against the man’s solar plexus. It’s so smooth, it’s like I practiced it a million times. It’s like being outside of my body, but knowing exactly what to do to hurt his at the same time.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” I say to the man. “And you will answer me. Otherwise …” I press the spear against his skin—hard enough to break.

He swallows hard.

“Where is Marjorie North?”

(in order of priority)

Day Seven

10. My father (dealt with)

9. Wes’s dad (blackmailed by Nora)

8. Duane Collins (lit on fire; currently in prison)

7. Abigail Deveraux (to be determined)

6. Burnt henchman (hit with a flare gun)

5. Marcus (shot in the foot)

4. North’s mercenary (detained by booby trap)

3. Caleb (enemy #3)

2. Agent Marjorie North (enemy #2)

1. Raymond Keane (enemy #1)

Day Seven. Dawn.

He full-body flinches at North’s name, and it looks like the movement drives the spike deeper into his foot because he lets out a groan and more sweat pops along his bald head.

“I’m not telling you shit,” he says.

“You will.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “You’re not strong enough to—”

I shove forward with the spear, twisting at the end of the movement, corkscrewing the wood into his skin. He screams, even though the stick is only embedded, like, half an inch into him. Stabbing someone actually takes a lot of force, especially if you’re using a rough-hewn spear and not a knife, and I’m already sore from all the digging.

“Holy shit, Iris!” Wes yells as the man screams again.

But I don’t listen to either of the protests. Nora talks about Marjorie North like she’s a dried snake rattle in a jar—just as poisonous as the criminals she catches, but trapped behind glass.

“Tell me.”

“What the fuck!” he practically screams in my face, and I have to rear back to avoid the spit.

But I stay the course. I keep my arms rigid and the spear thrusting forward.

“What are you doing here?” I demand. “And how do you know Marjorie North?”

“Christ—Christ—” he pants. Sweat rolls down his bald head. “You’re not supposed to be the crazy one.”

“Well, those notes—are those her notes? They suck,” I say. “Is she here in this forest? Where’s your home base?”

He hesitates. I twist the spear half an inch to the right.

He screams. Birds scatter in the trees near us at the noise.

“Okay, okay,” he pants. I’m surprised it’s this easy. But maybe North doesn’t inspire loyalty. “She hired me for a retrieval job. She wanted people familiar with the terrain.”

“Retrieval? You’re supposed to take us? Where?” Wes demands.

“Not you,” he says. “Only the target.”

His answer chills me. “You mean Nora? She hired you to take Nora?”

He nods.

“Where?”

“There’s a ranger’s station about a mile and a half west of here. It’s slated for repair next year, so it’s closed. That’s home base.”

I look at Wes. His face is a storm, his eyes roving around the meadow like he’s worried someone will spring out at any second.

My heart lurches. There’s no way North only hired one guy.

“How big is your team?” Wes asks.

“I’m not telling you—”

I yank the spear out of him.

“Motherfu—”

This time, the tip—bloodstained now—settles against the hollow of his throat.

“Right here is a lot easier to stab,” I tell him.

“You’re not strong enough,” he gasps.

My eyes narrow. “You’re right,” I say. I toss the spear to the side and grab my Taser out of my pocket.

“Hey, hey, heeeyyyy!” His words descend into a scream as I press the Taser against his stomach and flip it on. The electric crackle makes his body jerk and twitch and he sags forward, screaming louder when the movement drives the spike farther into his right foot.

“How many people did North bring with her?”

“Only me,” he says.

I meet Wes’s eyes over the man’s head. He’s lying. And once again it’s like Wes and I don’t have to talk. We know exactly what the other person needs to do.

Wes clubs him. I step back. North’s man sags forward, twisting the wood spike farther into his foot at the clumsy movement.

“Rope?” Wes asks, and I unloop it from across my chest and hand it to him. He secures the man’s hands behind his back, and I grab the two guns and the knives, handing the guns to Wes.

“So what do you think?” I ask Wes.

“No way North comes into this forest with just one guy. I say a team of three at least. Maybe more. We should move. He might have a partner around.”

I look him up and down one more time. “Does he look like an FBI agent to you?”

Wes shakes his head. “He’s not. I recognize him. He used to be a search-and-rescue guy. Tom something. There was an article in the paper years ago when he got fired. I remember because my dad went on a whole rant about how drugs fuck good men up.”

“Small towns,” I say. “Everyone knows someone. What’s she doing hiring local guys?”

“He said she wanted people familiar with the terrain.”

“She’s heading up a NorCal FBI office. How are there not guys there familiar with the Cascades?”

It hits me.

“She’s not here for the FBI,” I say, just as Wes says. “Shit, it’s not a sanctioned operation.”

“Wes,” I say numbly, staring down at the paper. The devil is in the details. That’s what she’s always told me.

Go with your gut, Iris.

There isn’t a non-lethal means only note left after Nora’s name like there is for mine and Wes’s. And there’s no mention of Amanda at all.

“I don’t think Agent North’s here to save us,” I say.

There’s one thing I know about myself.

I’m good at saving things. Saving bits of knowledge. Saving bits of history.

Saving other people. Saving myself.

Those last two, they’ve defined me. I didn’t set it out to make it so, but that’s the thing about finding yourself in the thick of a nightmare. You end up finding yourself in the nightmare.

There’s one thing I know about life: it’s all about risk.

I grew up in a nightmare. Spun through the storm clouds my father conjured like a fairy-tale princess determined not to let the darkness touch her. For a long time, I was awake-but-asleep. I didn’t know I needed saving. I didn’t even know I was in a nightmare.

Cinderella doesn’t call her wicked stepmother wicked, after all—the story does. All Cinderella wants is for that wicked woman to love her.

I wanted my dad to love me for a long time. And then I wanted to hide from him for even longer.

But I had something the fairy-tale princesses hardly ever have.

I had a mom. Not a mother. A mom.

She created a bubble inside his storm, where things were better, where dreams were possible.

And I knew someday I would have to leave that bubble. Go off into the world. She couldn’t keep me tucked in a tower or a castle—not safe, exactly, but always forever hers.

It’s when I started thinking about college that it hit me.

He’s short-tempered, your father, she always says. It’s not like he hits.

If I leave her, I’m leaving her with him. There wouldn’t be two of us against his storm.

It would only be her.

Her making herself even smaller and more unassuming. Tiptoeing around his rages and ducking the dishes thrown against the wall. Catering to his every whim because otherwise …

There is so much in those three dots after otherwise, isn’t there?

So much to fear. So much to dread. So many nightmares.

I make a list of possibilities. Because that’s the best way to organize one’s thoughts.

I don’t give it a title, just in case; just in case he finds it. So much of my life is about just in case.

But if the list had a title, it’d be: How I get Mom out.

Some of the ideas are so silly. Winning the lottery and buying her a house—as if I’d ever waste my money on gambling. Getting a two-bedroom apartment in college and having her live with me—she’d never.

But then they start to morph, the older I get, the more I add, the more his storm descends on us and the air in our house is impossible to breathe, toxic-thick and heavy with his anger.

And a true list begins to form.

Four years of college. Then I’ll work for CAL FIRE or the Forest Service. I’d have the freedom to help her. I’d have the kind of life where she wouldn’t have to worry. I’d get her away from him. I’d convince her. I wouldn’t be a kid anymore. She could worry about herself.

It’s a solid list. But then …

There are those three little dots again.

A shitty boyfriend who didn’t like condoms. Badly timed strep throat. Two pink lines and a desperate girl putting her Lilli Ann coat up for sale so she can save herself.

This is the magical thing: I don’t have to.

My mom saves me instead. She white-knight rides in like a prince in a fairy tale and hugs me and dries my tears and drives me to the clinic. She holds my hand the whole time and holds the pink basin when I throw up in the recovery room and strokes my hair for hours in my bedroom when I get home.

I know, in the clarity of the relief coursing through me—thank you, Mommy, thank you—that I must save her like she just saved me.

It’s not like he hits.

She told me the line he had to cross. I believe her.

So I don’t make a new list.

It’s not like he hits.

I just make sure he finds out about my abortion.

It’s not like he hits.

And I know, when he calls my name and thunders down the stairs, that two things are about to happen.

My father is going to try to kill me.

And if I survive, I will have saved me and my mom.

Life’s all about risk. And I don’t like to gamble, but I have to.

This time, I win.

Day Seven. Morning.

Half a mile to the Cabin

Wes and I make the plan on the move. It’s scary how seamless it feels, almost like I’m sharing a brain with him. There is no more anger. The hurt is pushed down. There is only focus. Is this what danger winnows you down to? Only blood and breath and one thought: Survive.

What is North doing here? My mind keeps going the fairy-tale route: she’s evil, she’s conspiring with Raymond, she’s part of his organization.

But that’s ridiculous. North’s crooked—obviously, if she was amenable to Lee feeding her information through the years—and a lot immoral, considering she used a child as bait to get her man—but Raymond would never work with her.

She’s got to be Enemy #2 to him. I almost stumble when that thought hits me. I’ve never thought of it that way, and suddenly it’s so obvious—so full of potential—that I’m temporarily swept away by it.

He must hate her almost as much as Nora. She may not have cut his fingers off, but she’s the suit who gutted his organization. She’s the reason he has to rebuild.

We could use that. We could use her.

“Look,” Wes says, pointing ahead of me.

The ranger’s station is right where the mercenary said it was. A small forest-green-painted cabin tucked among the trees.

“Do you think she’s inside?” I look around, trying to spot some sort of vehicle. Did she hike in like we did? Or is there some access road around that isn’t on my map?

“Down!” Wes hisses, yanking my arm, and I drop into a crouch just in time. Light spills out of the window. A shadow falls across the glass, moving swiftly. The door to the cabin swings open.

She’s an unassuming woman, Marjorie North. Dirty-blond and ordinary. She’s wearing a linen suit, and the boxy lines are all wrong for her body type. If she embraced shoulder pads, she’d be much more of a powerhouse. But she’s relying on heels for intimidation instead, to bring her up to the level of the men she’s hired to hunt down my girlfriend.

She peers out the cabin door, looking around.

For a second, I think she’s somehow spotted us. But then she raises her hand toward the south, and that jolt of relief is quickly replaced by a sinking feeling of doom because another man—clad in the same camo as the mercenary we took out—comes walking out of the forest.

He says something to her that I can’t make out.

There’s something in his hand.

He hands it to North, who holds it up.

My fingers dig into Wes’s arm.

“That’s Nora’s bandanna,” I say quietly.

“Are you sure?”

“I embroidered it myself. I wrapped it around her hand, remember? When we ran out of gauze.”

He nods, pulling back, deeper into the trees.

North’s merc jerks his thumb over his shoulder—the way he came. Is that where he found the bandanna? Did he find Nora, too? Does he have her somewhere? Is that what he’s telling North?

But they don’t go marching off in that direction. Instead, North goes back into the cabin and the man follows.

“What do we do?” I ask Wes. “What if one of North’s men got Nora? What if one of Raymond’s men snatched her?”

“I don’t—”

Turbo lets out a low growl at Wes’s side, looking off into the distance.

“Iris, get behind me,” Wes says.

I do it, no question. Or at least, I try. But I move as Turbo leaps forward, and she knocks against my calves hard, pushing me to the side as Wes drops the leash in order to break my fall.

“Turbo!” I grab for the trailing leash, but it’s too late.

She’s gone.

Day Seven. Morning.

The Cabin

Wes takes two steps to chase after Turbo and then stops.

“Go get her!” I say. “I’ll stay here.”

Now that I’ve seen North, I don’t want to move. I want to keep watch. Make a plan. Figure out why in the world she’s here.

He hangs back for a second. I can tell it’s killing him. Turbo’s his favorite girl out of all of us right now.

“Are you gonna use that gun if you need to?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He only takes enough time to nod. “Don’t move,” he says, and then he tears off.

Did I do that on purpose? I look back to where Wes was. I didn’t manufacture Turbo getting loose, of course. But had I urged him to go, made sure he was gone so I could …

Is this what she feels like? Is this what the choices are? Ones that aren’t really choices at all, only instincts?

Is it worse if I did it on purpose?

Or is it worse if I fell into it without thinking?

You’re a natural. They’ve both told me that, in different contexts. Lee and Nora, I mean. I had waved it off, but inside, it had felt good. It was like being understood.

I know what people think when they look at me. I’ve learned it can be useful in certain contexts. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t annoying.

I wait a breath, then another. Enough time for his footsteps to completely fade and mine to draw to the edge of the tree line. The cabin’s surroundings are overgrown, but if I step forward she’ll be able to see me from the windows.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. Wes will be pissed, and he’s at mega-levels of justified anger right now.

But North had the bandanna. What if she has her? What if she found her? What if she’s hurt?

That would mean Raymond still has Emma and Amanda.

I dismiss it. I try hard to, but it lurks in the back of my head. That North’s presence has screwed this all up. That she might be the only thing to trade to get the girls back. That’s what pushes me off the edge.

Movement near the window. It’s now or never.

I step forward. Trip into view with a clumsiness that’s almost real. I spin, like I’m being followed, and my back’s to the cabin door when I hear it slam open. I whirl; too late, he’s already on me, grabbing my arm.

I let out a muffled shriek because I don’t know if Wes is close enough to hear as the man shouts toward the cabin. North comes running. I clock the heels again. And it changes my entire plan because who the hell wears heels in the forest?!

Someone who doesn’t expect to get off her ass once to get what she wants. Lazy. Spoiled. Entitled.

I can work with that.

“Get her inside!” North says.

I struggle against the guy with absolutely no finesse. My knees buckling so he has to drag me. I don’t want to give myself away just yet.

“Did you see anyone else with her?” North hustles us inside the one-room cabin. She pats me down, taking the gun off me.

“Was someone chasing you?” she asks me.

I don’t answer. My eyes rove around the room, checking for exits. Two windows on the wall to my right. One to my left, next to the door.

The bandanna’s sitting there on the scarred coffee table. There are a few chairs scattered near the wood stove, a bunk bed in the corner, a postage-stamp kitchen not much more than a camp stove, and a rickety shelf of aged spices.

I could throw the glass bottles of spices at her head in a pinch. Be creative, Nora’s always telling me. Anything can be a weapon.

“I need to search the area,” the merc says to her. “Do you want me to secure her?”

Her eyes sweep up and down me, suddenly assessing. It makes my lips curl.

I can’t feel any fear. I can’t feel much of anything, actually. All I see is red. All I think of is Nora when she was so young, so wronged, and one of the people responsible is right in front of me, and another is out there in the woods, and if I don’t play this right I won’t be able to cross her off my list.

And she really, really deserves to be crossed off my list.

“Iris,” North says slowly. “That’s your name, right? Do you … do you know who I am?”

I have a split second to decide. Play dumb or play vicious.

I slap that asshole of a woman so fucking hard my palm comes away bloody.

“That answer your question?”

Day Seven. Morning.

Near the Cabin

I don’t see Turbo. I don’t hear her. I’m running blind, too panicked to slow down and look for a trail.

If I lose her …

Holy shit, I’ve lost everyone and the tightness in my chest is too much, I can feel it getting too much and Iris isn’t here to calm me down and she’s the only one who’s any good at it and fuck, fuck, I should’ve taken Lee up on the therapy suggestion. But I didn’t think … I didn’t know …

God, I didn’t know anything.

I never know anything.

What does it say about me? That they all lie? That they all leave? It’s gotta be me, doesn’t it? After so many …

I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know how to be. I don’t know who to be.

Aren’t you theirs, more than your parents’?

Iris and the fucking truth: it’s a real soulmate situation.

I breathe in, sharp and quick. I’ve gotta get a hold of myself. So I stop for a second. Straining to hear anything other than the roar of my heart and hurt.

The wind in the trees. Almost like a wave as it ripples through. The creak of branches. The sound of birds.

No. Wait.

The sound of crows.

I strain, heart in my throat suddenly, and for once it’s not because of the panic attacks.

Three short calls. Three long ones. Followed by another three short ones.

Morse code. SOS.

Nora.

I pull out my crow call. One short blast. Two long. A W for Wes.

A beat of silence. For a minute, I’m afraid I’ve hallucinated it. I’m already in the panic attack. I don’t know what’s going on.

And then, mercifully, her SOS repeats.

I run, barely looking where I’m going. I’m focused on the sound. On it getting louder.

The only thing that can stop me is the one that skids me in my tracks.

A sharp, warning yip.

I turn in a slow circling, trying to place where Turbo is. I can do this. I can scoop her up and head toward Nora. I can grab them both.

I spot Turbo. She’s moving at a fast trot, her head down.

“Come on, girl!” I start to say, but it fades in my throat because I see who’s holding Turbo’s leash.

Day Seven. Morning.

What I’m working with: 1 sling pack and its contents, 1 headlamp, 1 rifle, 1 inhaler, 1 creepy photo of myself with TARGET scrawled on the back, Jill the machete, 1 small sloth-loving child

“If you had a sloth, what would you name it?” I ask Emma. We ran out of sloth facts a while ago, but I’m so teeth-grittingly tired that I’m kind of stuck on the sloth theme.

She doesn’t answer. I jerk a look over my shoulder, my alarm replaced by relief when I see she’s fast asleep, plastered against my back. I really did a good job making this piggyback sling. The rope and my shoulders are taking the entire dead weight of her.

It’s been light for a while. Which means I’ve been staying deeper in the trees for an hour. It’s slowed me down more. But if my calculations are correct, I should be hitting the meadow where we put the booby traps any minute. All I have to do is go around it, head south, and I’ll be back at the mine shaft. If Iris found my locket message, then she will have made sure Wes stayed close to there. We can regroup. We can talk. I can face the very ugly music that is Wes hating me forever.

It’s so close, I can almost taste it. I can almost hear Turbo. Or maybe I’m just slightly delirious from the hand and feet blisters and stuff.

Wait. No. That isn’t delirium.

That is Turbo.

She lets out a sharp bark when she spots me, her leash trailing behind her as she barrels over, leaping up so both her front paws slam into my stomach as she tries to lick my face frantically.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” I tell her, removing her paws and grabbing her leash. I crouch down. “How’d you get away from Wes?”

Obviously, she doesn’t answer. I straighten, keeping hold on her leash.

“Let’s go,” I say, trying to tug her in the direction we have to go to get around the meadow and to the mine shaft.

But she doesn’t move. She stands at attention, her gaze fixed on something in the distance.

I crouch back down so I’m at her level, and that’s when I see it, too: movement to our right.

I duck behind a tree, Turbo snapping to action and scampering next to me. My heart hammers as I peer around the trunk, Emma’s sleeping weight a terrible reminder on my back that I have to survive this: not for me, but for her. I can feel the curve of her cheek against my shoulder blade. I know the shape of it now. A tiny half-moon, so small, so delicate. So breakable.

They’re moving away from me, not toward me. But they’re close enough that I can make out the hair color.

Two blond heads, bobbing through the deep green of the trees below. Caleb and Amanda.

Oh, thank God, she’s alive. Until this very second I hadn’t been sure, and the relief is like getting my teeth knocked out of my face: not pretty at all, but visceral as hell itself.

He’s got her hands tied in the front, not the back, and every few steps he pushes her, even though she’s keeping pace.

I can’t see Amanda’s face. I’m searching for some sort of wound—there had been so much blood on my borrowed flannel—but I can’t see any from here.

And then he says something and she half turns back to answer and my fist goes in my mouth, I bite down on my fingers so I don’t yell out.

Her shirt, her entire front, is a wash of brown—blood long-dried. And her neck …

I can see the long slice he made across her neck. I know the skill it takes, to cut her so shallowly in the dark, to make her bleed that much without killing her.

It’s killing me. I’m not a good enough shot. I don’t have any hope of hitting him and missing her from this far away, and I know it.

If I didn’t have Emma strapped to me, I could ambush him. It’s only Caleb and Amanda. I could do it. I could get her away. Then we could all run.

I could keep running forever. Raymond could keep chasing, but I could keep running. I wouldn’t have to face him. I wouldn’t have to—

I snap myself the fuck out of it.

She’s a kid. She’s innocent. You promised.

Caleb and Amanda are moving fast. In five minutes they’ll be out of sight. In ten it’ll be much harder to pick up their trail.

I look over my shoulder. Turbo means Wes is nearby. But how close? Can I risk it?

I pull out the crow call from my sling pack. Facing the direction Turbo came bursting out of, I let out three short calls and then three long ones. Then another three. Then I wait before I repeat the pattern four times. I’m about to abandon all hope. And then: three calls back. So distant I can barely hear them. A W for Wes.

I send a long and short call back. N for Nora.

Wes and Iris will be in sight in a few minutes. I only have so much time.

“Hey, Emma. Can you wake up?” I shake her slightly.

“Huh?” She blinks sleepily at me. “Time to go?”

“Time to go,” I say. “Let’s unhook your leg.”

Even sleepy, she’s picked up now that when I ask her to do things, she should do them fast. She’s out of the sling in a minute, and then I’m out of it, too.

I look over my shoulder. Caleb and Amanda are nearly gone.

“You’re gonna do a big favor for me, okay?” I ask, patting her front pocket to make sure her inhaler is tucked inside. Her knife necklace swings securely around her neck. “You’re gonna take Turbo to Wes for me. You take her leash.” I wrap it around Emma’s hand. “And you go that way.” I point south. “You’ll run into Wes in a few minutes. I promise. And one more thing.” I pluck the pen free of her Swiss Army knife necklace and scrawl on her arm: Stay put @ mine!! Emma needs you. NORTH. “Make sure to show Wes that.”

“Where are you going?” Emma asks.

“I’ll be close behind,” I say. “I’ve gotta go get your sister first.”

“Amanda? No, I want to come with you!”

“No, no, you have to go with Turbo. I have to be really sneaky.”

“I can be sneaky,” Emma insists.

Shit, I shouldn’t have said that. “I know,” I say. “But we can’t bring Turbo, because she’s a dog and she’s not sneaky. Amanda’s got me, so she won’t get lost. But I need you to go with Turbo so she doesn’t get lost. If Turbo gets hurt or lost, Wes will be so sad. She needs a human buddy.” It’s so manipulative it sours my stomach, but she buys it. She bites her chapped lower lip and nods.

“Turbo, look at me.” I tap the corner of my eye. She instantly goes alert next to Emma. “Find Wes,” I tell her. “Find Wes!”

She turns around and trots off. Emma looks over her shoulder at me.

“Go,” I say. “Remember, you gotta take care of Turbo for me.”

“I will.” I hate how small she sounds. How doubtful.

She sees through me already. She already understands that there are bad people and lies in the world. I can’t erase that. He did that to her. Because it was convenient.

Because it was the easy way to me.

“Go,” I say again.

This time she does.

I turn back to watch Amanda and Caleb far in the distance.

And I pray this is a memory that doesn’t come back to haunt Emma when she’s grown … because we’re gone.

Day Seven. Morning.

Outside the Cabin

Getting the drop on Agent North is easier than I thought. She sends the mercenary to find Wes as soon as he does a terrible job at tying me to the chair, and then it’s the two of us, and then I’m making her angry enough to get the better of her, and now we’re walking out of the cabin. North’s bitching, frantically trying to reason with me of all things, and the consequences of my actions are starting to hit me, but not in the way I think she wants. I’m more worried about Wes.

Wes will be pissed I went rogue. My stomach clenches as the sound of paws in the underbrush get louder.

“Iris, please,” North says, right before he breaks through the tree line, and then she shuts right up.

“Holy shit,” I say, at the exact same time as Wes does when he sees North, and then I go quiet, too, as we both stare at him.

A dirty little girl is clutched in his arms, hiding her face from the sunlight.

“Oh my God,” North says, her voice low with shock. “What have you done? Who is that?”

Guess the whole Amanda situation wasn’t in her terrible notes about everything. What a surprise.

“What the fuck, Iris?” he asks, his eyes landing on the gun in my hands and North’s tied ones.

“She spotted me,” I say, which is technically true. “Hi, Emma,” I say. “I’m Iris.”

Emma keeps her head tucked into Wes’s chest. He gathers her closer, trying to soothe. I shoot him a worried look.

“Where is she?” I ask in an undertone, looking around.

He just shakes his head, staring above mine, his eyes like death, fixed on North.

“Wes, where is she?!” I ask again.

“She went after him,” he says. “She found Turbo and tied the dog to Emma and sent her off. She left behind this rifle and her stuff. All she’s got is the machete.”

“She what? No! No, that’s crazy,” I say, but it’s like an itch that’s finally scratched as I understand.

Of course she went after him. She told me her plan. I didn’t see it. I should’ve seen it. She’s so careful, sometimes. So tricky.

First we’re going to save Emma. Then I’m going to kill Raymond Keane.

Not we. I.

This was her plan all along. Wes and I would get Emma to safety. Even if it meant leaving Nora behind.

It’s the sacrificial lamb bullshit again! Oh God, what if he gets to her first?

What if, this time, he wins?

Day Seven. Morning.

What I’m working with: Jill the machete

As soon as I hear it—Wes’s short crow call that signals E for Emma—I’m on the move. I don’t have time to relish it. I have to catch up with Caleb.

Wes might come after me, and if he does, we’re all fucked. If he spots Amanda, he won’t leave. If Iris spots me, she won’t leave.

They need to leave. They can’t follow. I hope they listen to my message. I hope they see.

I know they will. I saw it, and they’re better than me.

I scramble down the embankment, toward the ground.

I don’t need to think. I don’t need to plan.

The mind, it falls into old habits. Once a con artist, always a con artist.

I drop the rifle. I leave behind my sling pack. Wes and Iris can use them more than me. Caleb will take everything off me anyway.

I’m down to me and Jill. I take a deep breath. I run my hands through my hair, shaking it back and forth so it looks crazier than it did before. I look down at my body, my bandaged hands, my dirty T-shirt. I twist the bottom of my shirt, tearing it at the hem.

In my mind, I see a mirror. I feel hands on my shoulders. I hear a voice speak the words.

Terrorized. Lost. Feral.

I let it consume me: every shred of panic and fear that I’ve been pushing down and boxing up since I heard Amanda say Sure thing, Sammy on the side of that road.

My mind doesn’t need to tell me to start running.

The body, it always knows.

Day Seven. Morning.

Outside the Cabin

“What is this?” North demands, looking at Emma and then back at both of us. “What the hell is going on?”

“This is the little girl Raymond Keane k-i-d-n-a-p-p-e-d,” Wes says. He spells out the last word. There are tiny ears present.

“He … what?” North steps back, and for a second I worry she’ll flee, but then I realize: no, it’s shock.

We’ve completely thrown her. Good. Seize on it.

“Did your big FBI brain fail to realize Raymond ran up to NorCal and started taking the children of Clear Creek, like, twenty-four hours after arriving? Nope. You totally missed it. Because Nora had to save her.”

“Nora!” Emma finally lifts her head from Wes’s chest. “Is she coming back yet?”

“Not yet, sweetie,” Wes says. “Soon.”

“’Cause she’s getting Amanda first, right?” Emma asks.

“Yes, she’s getting Amanda for us,” Wes reassures her. “Just like you told me.”

“Who’s Amanda?” North demands.

“The other girl Raymond k-i-d-n-a-p-p-e-d,” I say, taking a cue from Wes and spelling it out. “I told you: your intel on this situation sucks.”

North’s eyes bug out. It makes her look ostrich-like. “This is—no.” She shakes her head. “This is a con.”

“For who?” I demand incredulously.

Wes scoffs. “Yes, because we’re psychopaths who torture and use children. Are you kidding me? That’s people like you and Abigail Deveraux.”

I didn’t know Wes had it in him. I’m impressed, and then I glance over at him, and oh wow, I have never seen so much burning hate in his eyes as he stares down Agent North, and I’ve been on the receiving end of some looks from him in the past day, unfortunately rightfully so.

“We’re going to move now,” Wes says, and I guess I won’t catch any heat for getting caught by North, because he unslings the rifle he’s got strung over his shoulder and gently sets Emma on the ground.

“Take Emma, Iris,” he says. “Get behind me.” And I do it, because he sounds so serious. I grab Emma’s hand, pulling her close to me. She hides her head in my hip, like she knows she shouldn’t watch.

As soon as he’s blocking me and Emma with his body, he raises the rifle. Turbo leaps to his side at this action, her ears standing straight up as she fixates on North.

“Hey now,” North says, her bound hands twitching behind her. “You’re gonna get yourself hurt with that.”

“Considering I was a skeet shooting champion five years in a row, I don’t think so,” Wes says, so stripped of emotion it startles me.

He flips the safety off. “You didn’t come here with FBI agents. You hired mercenaries on your own.”

She stares down the gun. I keep a death-grip on Emma, who’s hidden her face again.

Turbo lets out a low growl.

“Did you … did you do something to …”

“I’m not telling you shit until you give me some information. I want to know how many you brought with you and why,” he says.

She shakes her head. “I’m not doing this with you kids. You need to listen to me—”

“Milwaukee. Akron. Austin. San Francisco. Seattle. Rochester.”

I’m completely lost, especially because he says the cities so dispassionately, but North reacts like Wes has actually shot her.

“Don’t,” she grits out. “Don’t you dare.”

“Lee always falls asleep during movie night,” he says, lowering the rifle a few inches to point straight at her heart, but his words are more painful than any bullet. “But she talks in her sleep. It’s mostly the cities. She never told me why she repeats them like that. But sometimes she says your name after. I think you have a better idea of the meaning than me.”

It’s like she completely unravels, right then and there, and I realize, suddenly, that Wes may not be great at faking things, but when he’s got the truth on his side he’s a stone-cold killer.

I guess we both learned from Nora.

He just triggered her like she’s a bomb or something, and he jumps right into the storm he’s created, pushing while North is reeling. “How many mercenaries, North?”

“Three,” she says.

“Why aren’t there agents in here with you?”

“I came up here on a hunch,” she says. “The sisters didn’t run after the bank robbery. I wanted to know why, so I got transferred to Sacramento. I knew he’d come for her eventually.”

“And instead of being prepared or catching him, you … let it happen?” I ask angrily.

“I couldn’t do anything unless he committed a crime.”

“Kidnapping two girls kind of counts, North!” This time I forget to spell the word out, but luckily Emma doesn’t seem to notice.

“And if you had reported that to my office, then things would be different,” she snaps. “But you didn’t and they’re not. So you need to put the weapons down and let me call in my team,” North says. “You’re already in enough trouble. I’ve lost contact with two of the men I hired.”

“This is what you get for hiring locals.” Wes shrugs.

Her eyes narrow. “What did you do to them?”

He ignores her. “Iris, call the dog.”

“Turbo, come!” I point to the spot next to me, and she darts over, sitting down so close she’s pressed up against the length of my leg.

Wes doesn’t lower the gun.

“If you kill me—” she starts.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Wes says. “And I didn’t kill any of your mercenaries.”

“I have no problem killing you if you try something,” I add from behind him.

I don’t need to be facing him to know he’s rolling his eyes. “Iris won’t kill you, either.”

“Don’t bet on that.”

“You two are children. You need to stop playing now, hand over the weapons, and barricade yourself in that cabin while I sort this out and call in reinforcements.”

I ignore her. “We need to move,” I tell Wes. “Nora must be headed to their camp. We can track her. Hopefully catch up with her. Provide reinforcements.”

He nods. “I can carry Emma on my back. North goes in the middle. You bring up the rear with Turbo and the gun.”

“We need to fix her ropes,” I say.

She’s getting redder the more we talk about her like she’s not there.

“Are you crazy?” North bursts out. “You can’t just piggyback a child through the forest. You have … what, ten rounds in that rifle? Raymond Keane is packing a lot more than ten rounds.”

Wes lowers the rifle and I raise my gun, trying to be calm with it instead of scared. I like the spear better than this thing. The spear is a sensible weapon.

“Come on, Emma,” Wes says, bending down and patting his shoulders. “Climb on up.”

“You can’t do this.” North swallows, positively rattled. “You’ll get yourselves killed. You’ll get this child—”

“Shut up,” I say as Emma’s eyes widen on killed. “Or I will stuff your mouth with something.”

“Nora,” Emma says in a small voice.

“What about her, honey?” I ask.

“She wanted me to show you this. I forgot. I’m sorry.” She thrusts out her arm, pushing up her dingy sleeve.

Wes and I lean forward to see the message Nora scrawled on Emma’s arm.

Stay put @ mine!! Emma needs you. NORTH.

“Does that mean she’s going north, or does that means she saw North and—” I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. She’s making a run for it. I don’t have time to swear, I just throw myself into a slide, and my hands close around her ankles and yank.

She wipes out, no time to poorly brace herself with her bound hands. Her head hits the ground and I scramble up, ready to grab her if she tries to get up, but she doesn’t.

I’ve knocked her out. I check her pulse, just to be sure it’s there and strong. I turn around to face Wes, catching Emma’s shocked look.

“Is she a bad guy, too?” Emma asks.

“She just needs a timeout,” Wes says, unwinding the rope from where he’s slung it across his chest. “Why don’t you play with Turbo, Emma?”

She nods.

I step back as he reties her hands with a double length of rope leading like a leash both ways. That way if one of us is holding each end of rope, she can’t get away from either of us.

“Now what?” I ask him.

“Now we wait,” he says.

“And when she wakes up?”

“Iris,” he says, because he knows what I’m going to say.

“We have to split up, Wes,” I say softly. “One of us has to stay with Emma. And one of us has to go get our girls.”

Day Seven. Afternoon.

4 miles from the Mine Shaft

Wes told me once that to love Nora was to lose her.

I never went into any of this expecting to lose her. The opposite, really. It’s a cliché, but the U-Haul joke is applicable here.

I met her, and I knew after one conversation. It was a deep-rooted fact, suddenly inside me like it had always been there: water is wet, fire is hot, this girl is going to change my life.

And then I knew her. And then it wasn’t this girl is going to change my life, it was this girl is my life.

And maybe we were young, and maybe it would be hard—oh God, I had no idea how hard it would be—but this was it. She was it.

I knew it. Water is wet. Fire is hot. Nora O’Malley is it for me.

I didn’t know that to love her is almost a guarantee: you’ll lose her. Wes knew. Wes learned the hard way, over and over. But I didn’t.

I didn’t know a lot of things.

I didn’t know what I was willing to do—the rules I’d break, the lives I’d shed, the choices I’d make—to get her back.

I didn’t know that fighting to keep her … that’s what made me different.

That’s what made me hers.

That’s what made her mine.

No matter what.

Day Seven. Afternoon.

What I’m working with: Jill the machete

I run so quickly that Amanda and Caleb are in my sights fast. At first, I follow stealthily. I use everything Wes has ever taught me. I want to get a feel for the dynamic here.

Amanda’s no longer tied up. She cringes every single time he looks at her. So he’s using terror to keep her in line.

Almost slitting someone’s throat does that to most people.

Is Caleb the only one left? I creep along the tree line, careful not to step on anything that will crack or rustle.

I took out Marcus, and Iris and Turbo took out the one I hit with a flare gun. That leaves Caleb and the guy from the fire tower. But that guy might still be unconscious in the dirt for all I know.

Is it down to Caleb and Raymond?

Or do they want me to believe that? Lulled into the idea that I can beat them. An illusion of easier odds when they’re not at all.

As I follow them, I slice strips from my fleece wrapped around my waist, tying them to branches as I go, marking my path. We need a path back. I’m not risking getting turned around when we have to run.

An hour in, Caleb stops and pulls out a bottle of water from his pack. I watch for a minute as he guzzles it, and I’m grateful I waited, because after he’s done with his water, he pulls something out of his pocket.

A satellite phone.

If I get that phone, I can call out.

I watch him make a call. My eyes narrow. He’s calling Raymond, right? That’s the only person he’d need to.

I straighten as it hits me. We’re close. I know it. He’s letting Raymond know they’re coming in.

I duck away and scout ahead half a mile, just to confirm, and when I spot a flash of blue through the trees that can only be a tent, my heart starts pounding.

I’m right. Their camp is right ahead.

It rattles inside me: He’s been here, an hour away, this whole time. He could’ve walked into your camp and taken you.

He tried. He just took the wrong girl.

I’m tempted, I won’t lie. I’m tempted to charge in, machete raised, and hope for the best.

But I draw back instead—who knows who Raymond has patrolling—and circle around, back to where Caleb had been resting.

He’s still sitting on his ass. Because he’s been taunting Amanda with the water bottle. I watch as he waves it mockingly in front of her. Irritation flares, and I have to press my lips and do my breathing or I’ll start mentally bitching him out.

Follow the plan, Nora.

I wait until he gets back to his feet and starts tugging Amanda along again. Then I step hard on a branch, the crack echoing through the trees.

He’s good—I’ll give him that. He doesn’t stop, but his head turns right, toward where I am.

I follow sloppily this time, not stealthily. Wes would be in full scowl mode if he could see it.

It takes around eight minutes. He’s to my right through the trees one moment, and the next he’s gone.

I freeze like an amateur, long enough for him to get into position. Just as I’m about to startle off like a deer caught in a rifle sight …

… his knife settles right above my lower back, the tip pressing up, so he could slide it right under my rib cage and pierce my lung if he wanted.

“Drop the knife,” he says. “Toss it.”

I do as he says, tossing Jill away from me. Then I raise my hands in the air. I turn my head a fraction. Amanda’s slumped on the ground.

“What did you do?” I demand. “Amanda!”

“I needed my hands free,” Caleb says.

I can’t move anymore. It’ll drive the point of his knife too far into my skin, and I know how sharp he keeps his knives.

“You better not have killed her.”

She shudders, almost like she wants to reassure me, and it does, it really does.

“She’s okay,” I tell Amanda. “She’s okay. Do you hear me? I got her away from these useless assholes.”

“Shut up,” Caleb says, but it’s too late.

The sound she makes … it’s part relief, part blood-burble. I think he punched her in the mouth. Shit. She either didn’t clench her teeth in time before he hit her, or she can’t do it hard enough anymore since she’s broken her jaw before.

The knife slides up my spine. I can feel it cutting a long gash in the back of my T-shirt, but it never parts my skin. Air hits my back, the exposure making my skin crawl.

I can’t tense up. I can’t run. If I move, I’ll make it worse. He’ll either cut me or cut my shirt so badly it’ll fall off. Fucker.

“Looks like we get to have that talk we missed having in Florida,” Caleb says.

“Oh my God, why are you so obsessed with me? It’s weird,” I say, and it makes him shove me to the ground in response, scraping the shit out of my knees, but it’s worth it. I’m away from the knife.

I roll to the side, getting ready to kick out. But I’m too late.

He gets me in the stomach, and I should be glad it’s not on the messed-up ribs, and I am, I really am. But also getting kicked in the stomach by a man who’s got almost six years of rage stored up against you is one of those experiences that causes you to kind of blank out and your reflexes slow and he’s grinning and I’m not fast enough as his foot draws back again and his mouth moves and when his foot connects again, so do his words:

“He can’t wait to see you.”

Day Seven. Afternoon.

The Mine Shaft

North is silent the entire walk to the creek, where she greets the mine shaft with a skeptical gaze.

“It’s like Bilbo’s house!” Emma says, showing more interest and less fear than I’ve seen so far, which is really good. She seems to want to hang onto Wes or Turbo at all times, and I don’t blame her one bit.

“It’s exactly like Bilbo’s house,” Wes says as she crawls inside. “Go,” he tells North, gesturing with the rifle.

She shakes her head. “This is ridiculous. I need to contact my team. If you’re actually worried about Nora and Amanda, you’ll stop and think.”

“Get inside,” he tells her.

She obeys, and as soon as she’s disappeared, he turns to me.

“I have to go, Wes,” I say as I pull the bear bag off my shoulders and dump it onto the ground between us. The relief of getting it off my back is profound—my lower back and hip are killing me. I root around in it, grabbing a bottle of water, a filter, and five of the protein bars. That’s really all I can carry in my pockets to keep my hands free for weapons.

He’s quiet for so long I’m afraid his jaw clenching’s given him a cramp.

“You’re a bigger physical threat to North than me,” I point out. “And Emma needs someone who can get her out of this forest if no one comes back. We both know that’s not me.”

“Tracking Nora is just as hard—” he starts to say, but I shake my head.

“She’s heading north. She’ll find a way to mark the trail. All I have to do is follow it.”

His expression is unreadable as he stares at me, and I try to beg him with my eyes to understand.

“You need to take Turbo with you. And the rifle and this gun,” he says, handing me the one I took off North. “It’s got more bullets.”

“That leaves you with only one,” I protest.

“I’ll be fine. I’m a better shot.”

I’m losing time and daylight. I need to get on the move because I’ll have to rest more.

“Walk four hours north,” he says, looking at his watch. “Mark your way. That’ll put you at almost four o’clock. Keep a lookout for footprints in the wet dirt, flattened grass, broken branches at knee and hip height. If you don’t spot anything, you turn back around after four hours, Iris, you hear me? You come back here before it gets dark. And then we’ll go out again in the morning together if you don’t find her.”

I nod. “I promise.”

“If you do find the camp, if Raymond has them both already—” His voice shakes at the thought. “Wait until the camp goes to bed. Attack at night. Take out any guards or patrols first, and do it as quietly as possible. Use your fleece to muffle the gunshots at close range.”

I swallow down the saliva surging in my mouth at the thought of creeping through the night, pressing a gun against someone’s back and shooting through my purple fleece.

“Don’t aim for the head unless you’re able to press that gun right against their skull,” he says. “Aim for their chests. It’s a larger area to target. Double-tap, like I taught you, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, even though it is really, really not okay.

“We should stick together,” he says softly, almost to himself.

I grab his blistered hands in mine. “We’ll all be together soon.” I reach up and press a kiss to his cheek, my throat burning. “I promise,” I whisper in his ear before I pull away and clear my throat. “Come, Turbo!”

She scampers to my side, her tail wagging in the dirt, excited all of a sudden for a new adventure.

I check my watch. I turn north. I can’t say goodbye to him. It makes it too real.

I start walking. I just leave him behind. And I don’t look back.

I’ve got to go get my girl.

Day Seven. Afternoon.

Raymond’s Camp

What I’m working with: absolutely nothing

Caleb tries to drag us both into the camp. Amanda lets him, but I fight him every step of the way, so by the time we get down to the three blue tents grouped in a triangle, we’re both sweating and dirty, grunting and spitting, bruised and bitten in a few places, stumbling against each other, trying to get purchase. It’s a mess, not the triumphant return he planned, I’m sure, and I get a lot of pleasure out of being a pain in the ass. Maybe even literally.

Finally, he gets frustrated and pushes us to the ground like he did before. Amanda cries out as she goes down. I crash to my already-scraped knees, and ow, that was a pebble grinding right into my kneecap.

“Raymond!” he yells excitedly. “I’ve got her!”

There’s rustling in the middle tent.

He ducks out, and the first thing I think is: there’s blood on his hands.

I glance down at them, trying not to feel too unnerved.

“I hope that’s your blood,” I say, fighting to keep my voice level.

His smile splits his whole face.

It’s much scarier than the blood.

He holds out his hands. Ten fingers, stained crimson. I’d heard they reattached them.

“I’m afraid this blood is from one of your victims. You managed to take down Marcus and Travis.”

“I don’t hear any screaming. It can’t be that bad.” It’s getting easier to breathe now. Easier to talk like I don’t care.

And then, of course, he does something to make me care.

His gaze slides past me for the first time, fixing on Amanda’s bloody face.

“Put her in the tent,” he says to Caleb.

Amanda stumbles back, letting out an honest-to-God whimper.

“Hey,” I protest, stepping in Caleb’s way. “Don’t touch her.”

Caleb raises his hand and Raymond barks out, “No!” so fast it sets off a burst of triumph in me.

He doesn’t want anyone but him marking me up. He has plans. And he knows those plans don’t work with a Dead Me.

I’ve got him where I want him. Kind of. I mean, not really, considering I’m not armed. But theoretically, if I get Amanda out of this and escape, then I’ve got him where I want him. Big asks, I know, but I’ll figure it out.

I have to.

“What’s happened to her shirt?” he asks.

Excitement stabs inside me, because his voice drops all low and angry and it’s not directed at me.

Oh no, he’s pissed at Caleb.

“Caleb tried to cut it off me, the perv.”

Raymond’s eyes narrow.

“It wasn’t like that,” Caleb says.

“Take off your jacket,” Raymond orders Caleb.

“I just—” he protests.

“Give it to her.”

Caleb shrugs out of it and hurls the jacket at my stomach. I catch it.

“Cover up,” Raymond says. “Young ladies don’t go running around with their undergarments showing.”

I drop it on the ground.

“Nora, don’t,” Amanda moans. “Don’t … don’t make it worse.”

“Take the other girl,” Raymond says, bending to pick up the jacket himself as Caleb grabs Amanda’s arm and starts dragging her toward one of the tents.

Raymond closes the final foot of space between us. He’s inches away, circling me like I don’t belong to myself.

But I don’t just belong to myself. I know myself.

“Caleb better not touch her.”

He drapes the jacket around my shoulders. I try not to shudder as his hands clasp around my shoulders and squeeze.

“I think you should be more concerned about your own well-being, Ashley.”

“That’s not my name.”

Thank God, his hands fall away, and he moves to face me.

But then he reaches out. Once, I was completely conditioned to duck when he raised his hand near me, and I hate myself, that it remains ingrained in me after all these years.

I keep still. I’m the yellow oak tree among the green pines, finally given up on trying to blend. And oaks only fall under the strongest storms.

He strokes a bloody finger down the short length of my hair.

“You’ll always be Ashley to me.”

“Okay, well, recently, I’ve been referring to you as Mr. Butt-Face. So I guess I’ll call you that.” It’s childish, but I don’t know what else to do to dissipate the burn in my chest and the voice that sounds like Iris screaming What are you doing?

If he doesn’t get away from me, I’m going to lose it.

“You remain incredibly immature.” He sighs. “And so unladylike. This hair.”

He tugs at the end of it. Stinging-hard and cruel.

I slap his hand away. So quick and unexpected that I actually succeed. I swipe his hand away and down, and his eyes grow wide. His cheeks flush and he reaches up and grabs my hair, yanking my head to the side. I don’t resist. Instead, I lash out. I go straight for his throat—I know I don’t have the strength to choke him out.

But I do have nails.

I dig them into his flesh, my thumb pressing against his windpipe, twisting and gouging until he lets me go with a grunt of pain. His hand cups his neck where crescent marks dot his skin. When he pulls away, fresh blood paints his palms.

“Guess it is your blood now.”

“Ashley Marie Keane!”

“That’s not my name.” I lunge for him. I’m running on too little sleep and too much adrenaline, and I don’t care if I’m not strong enough, I hate him, I hate him. I could say that’s my only real plan—Hate—but come on. This is me we’re talking about.

It’s not about hurting him, exactly.

It’s about distracting them.

So I go for him. I’m scratching, biting, my fingers twisting in a hunk of hair and ripping. He yells at that, but it doesn’t stop me.

What does is Caleb bursting out of the tent and hauling me off Raymond, just like I wanted. I’m screaming like a banshee, “Run, Amanda, run!” kicking as they lift me totally off the ground. My boot clips Raymond in the stomach, a final blow to the gut and the ego, and my shriek turns into a cackle as Caleb says “Fuck!” and dumps me onto the ground, chasing after Amanda, who’s made a break for it.

“Run!” I yell at her.

Caleb’s too fast. He’s got too much to prove. He slams her to the ground, and she lies there while he gets up, so limp I’m afraid she’s dead or something until I hear her start crying.

I push up off the ground. To stop it. To do anything.

“Stay down!” Raymond yells as I get to my feet. I won’t struggle. I’ll rise like a goddamn zombie ready to eat some brains.

If I’m gonna go down, I’m going down fighting like it’s the fucking apocalypse.

Caleb drags Amanda back toward the tents, glaring at me. She’s sobbing at this point, and it spikes my nerves. Raymond hates crying. She needs to be quieter. If she sets him off …

“You fucking cu—” Caleb starts to say to me, but Raymond barks out his name, cutting him off.

I laugh.

“Really?” I ask him. “That’s your crossed line?”

“Tie her up this time,” Raymond orders Caleb. “The fact that you didn’t—” He shakes his head, his eyes going bright.

“You told me if I won, I’d have my time with Ashley—” Caleb says.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

I don’t bother to modulate my voice. It rings out, loud and angry and outraged, and both of them stare at me like they almost forgot I was there.

“A wager of sorts,” Raymond says, like he knows how disturbing it sounds. Great, I see we’ve injected a lot of creep flavor into our whole persona while away at prison.

“I won.” Caleb grins. “I brought you in.”

My eyes dart between the two of them, trying to decide how to play this. I can’t pit them against each other. It won’t work.

I need to sow chaos. Discord. Uncertainty.

“Really,” I say. “You brought me in?” I cluck my tongue. “Okay, dude, you keep telling yourself that. I bet you also told yourself you ‘just happened’ across me in the woods.”

I can feel Raymond watching me. I know the skin-crawl, the way it twines up my spine, wrapping around each vertebra with a strength that promises to crush.

“I tracked you down,” Caleb insists.

“I was following behind you for thirty minutes before I circled around and let you catch me.”

I glance at Raymond, and I throw in an eyebrow arch for good measure. “Are you really indulging this?” I ask. “You were always so soft when it came to him. If he’s allowed to be this mediocre, he’ll never grow into a big-boy criminal.”

Raymond’s lip twitches with every criticism. I bet they hurt more because they’re the truth. There’s no way the older guys haven’t complained to Raymond about Caleb’s shit through the years.

“Caleb, go shoot the other girl,” he says. “We don’t need her anymore.”

Amanda absolutely dissolves. I’ve never seen someone fall apart in an instant. I feel like my stomach’s been scooped out with a melon baller.

Caleb steps forward, delight on every inch of his fading-boy-bander face.

“Hey!” And I put myself in front of her. I have to. I kind of hate her, but she’s here because of me, so I do it. “Didn’t Marcus tell you the rules?”

“Marcus is dead,” Raymond says. “He couldn’t walk anymore. He was of no use to me.”

That jerks my stomach like I’ve missed a stair. “He’s not a goddamn horse, Raymond. You didn’t need to kill him!”

“He knew the consequences of failing me when it came to you,” Raymond says. “This is on him … and you.”

Shit. Are these the rules he’s playing with? His men disposed of as soon as they’re not useful? Because that’s new. He used to prefer to feed their parts to gators and keep them around.

Prison’s really done a number on him.

“Did you kill the one I hit with the flare gun, too?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

“Of course.”

My mouth gets drier and drier. “And the one guarding the fire tower?”

“He’s alive if it makes you feel better. I’m not sure it will, though. You’ve always been bloodthirsty, Ashley.”

“Told you, that’s not my— Hey, stop it.” My attention snaps to Caleb, who’s taken a step toward Amanda again. “Can you call off your dog so I can relay my message, since you killed my messenger?”

Raymond gives the subtlest of nods to Caleb, who slumps away like a sulky child.

“I’m here to make a trade with you,” I say to Raymond. “If you hadn’t gotten all murder-happy, you would’ve already known that.”

“I don’t need to trade. I have everything I want,” Raymond says. “I have you.”

“You don’t have your blackmail files.”

“I can get those,” he says. “Because I have you. And I have Caleb. And he has a knife.”

Do not react, do not fucking react, that’s all they want in the world, a reaction.

“I guess you haven’t realized.”

“Oh?” Raymond asks, and there it is: the glint in his eyes. His willingness to take bait is pathological.

Don’t fist your hands, but don’t let them shake either. He’s looking for a tell. The hands are always a tell.

“I built a pause into my failsafe program for this trip, but we were supposed to be home by next Thursday. If I’m not …” I shrug.

He shifts his weight, barely, but I’m looking for it. His tell.

“You’ve caused quite a problem for yourself,” I tell him. “Or did you want to walk out of this forest and into a total clusterfuck when your blackmail files go up for sale to the highest bidders?”

“We have ways to get you out of this forest fast,” Caleb sneers.

“Quiet,” Raymond orders. He doesn’t even look at Caleb. He’s only got eyes for me.

I’m so close. I can feel it. One more tug on the door to the con and it’ll open.

“I’m not letting you go,” he says.

He steps into my territory. I’ve got him.

“When did I ever say anything about letting me go?”

And there. There is my in. There is his startled trip from condescension into surprise.

He has a total love/hate relationship with how I can surprise him.

Just like the first time we met.

“I want you to let Amanda go,” I say, gesturing behind me. “Then you can take me out of this forest, and I’ll bring you straight to the place I’ve stashed my laptop.”

His eyes narrow, and they are not supposed to be narrowing right now. He’s supposed to be getting lulled in. His mind latching onto the thing he thinks is more of a threat than me: the files.

“You’re very protective of her,” he says, and fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.

I put myself in front of her too much. I came after her all Rambo-like, machete in hand.

He’s watching us. She’d warned me the day I found out.

He knew who was important to me … and who wasn’t.

“Do I have to explain friendship to you now?” I ask, trying to go for incredulous.

“Raymond!”

Relief floods me at the distraction, because I’m not sure he’s buying it.

The guy I knocked out at the fire tower comes running toward the camp. He doesn’t even seem to notice us; all his attention is on the boss.

“There’s another guy,” he pants. “In camo like the first one Caleb took out. He shot at me.”

“How far?” Raymond asks.

“Maybe thirty minutes from here.”

“Pack up,” he orders. The two men scramble to obey.

Raymond pulls something out of his back pocket. “Come here,” he says to me. “Hold out your wrists.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I say when I see what’s in his hands.

“Hold out your wrists.”

“I don’t need to be zip-tied—” I start to say, but he grabs my right wrist and instead of yanking my wrists together, he yanks me down to the ground and zip-ties my right hand to Amanda’s left, pulling us together punishingly tight.

“Hey!” I protest. “This is not a Charlie’s Angels episode.”

“You are much too young to reference that.” But his eyes gleam with reluctant amusement. It’s how I got him the first time, and here I am, doing it again. It’s nostalgia, but the horrible kind.

“Yeah, well, I was raised by an old mom,” I say, just to rile him up some more.

Amanda jabs me in the ribs with her elbow.

“Shut up,” she says between gritted teeth.

I glance at her to hiss back, but then my brain catches up before my mouth fucks me over, because she’s shaking against me. Barely-there trembles, but I can feel them because we’re pressed close.

“Come on.” Raymond grabs me by the free arm and yanks me—and by extension, Amanda— toward the middle tent. “Stay inside while we pack up. You try to run, I’ll shoot her. You won’t get far dragging her dead body, will you?”

I don’t think he’s looking for an answer, because the next thing I know, he’s shoved us inside the tent.

Day Seven. Afternoon.

In the Tent

What I’m working with: 1 traumatized frenemy

The tent’s one of those big ones. You can stand up in it. Which is good, because the second we’re in the tent and alone, I turn on Amanda, which isn’t hard since she’s about six inches away from me.

I slap her bound hand with my own. “You didn’t give back my flannel on purpose!” I hiss. “You knew they were coming. You went out there so they’d mistake you for me.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Amanda says, not even trying to deny it.

“We had an entire plan! You messed it up!” I want to shove her so much, but instead I pull her closer. “Let me look at your neck and mouth. Christ, he did a number on you.”

She reluctantly lets me prod at the slice on her neck.

“I didn’t know they were coming that night,” she insists, wincing as I push too hard above the cut skin. “They didn’t leave the tag on my tent at all. I just hoped they’d think I was you and grab me. They were a no-show two nights in a row. I was getting desperate by day four. There was no signal from them. I had no idea how much was left in Emma’s inhaler. I needed to get it to her.”

“Well, that didn’t exactly work, did it?” I ask. “Are you any of your teeth broken?”

She shakes her head. “I bit my tongue and lip really hard.”

“You gotta press your tongue to the top of your mouth and clench your teeth when someone punches you in the face,” I tell her. “You’re lucky I had Emma’s spare inhaler on me, Amanda. You fucked everyone by not telling me you were changing the plan. Look at where we’re at now.”

My hands dance in a circle to try to encompass the situation and the tent …

That is when I realize we’re not alone in the tent.

Marcus is in here. Kind of shoved in the corner.

“Oh my God.” I step backward so fast I knock into her.

“What are you—” She lets out a startled gasp when she sees.

“Shit, turn around,” I say, but it’s too late, she’s seen it. We both have.

She’s sucking in breath like she can’t get enough, and my fingers clumsily pat her hand bound to mine.

“Amanda, look at me, don’t look at him,” I say, adjusting us so her back’s to him. Of course, this gives me a perfect view of Marcus’s neck and the deep chop that I knew for sure was from a cleaver.

“I—I don’t like blood,” she stammers out.

“Well, you’re really in the wrong situation, then,” I say, and instead of punching me, she kind of laughs, which tells me she’s really on edge.

“Focus,” I say. “Focus on me. Remember the important thing: Emma’s with Wes and Iris. She has her medicine. She’ll be getting out of this forest and all the way home.”

Her shoulders relax under my free hand at that. It’s not a perfect solution. They still need to get out of the woods safely with Emma. We still need to escape.

I still need to kill Raymond.

But one step at a time.

“What are we going to do? Do you think it’s Wes in the forest? The guy who shot at them?”

I shake my head.

I try really hard not to look at Marcus’s body, but then my eyes settle on his wrist.

He’s wearing a paracord bracelet with a compass set in the middle. It’s like the one Wes has.

“Don’t look,” I say. “But we gotta get closer.” I tug her with me.

“What are you doing?” she hisses as I bend down and untie the bracelet with my free hand.

“Take this,” I hand it to her. “Unravel it. Grab the compass component and tuck it in your pocket.”

“Are you body-robbing?”

I glare at her. “He doesn’t need it. And if it’s long enough, I can strangle someone with it.”

“Oh my God.”

“Can you help me for a second?”

“I am not—no way.” She shakes her head, staring at the ceiling of the tent. “I can’t. I can’t. Please don’t make me.”

It’s the broken please that gets me. And an icy realization passes through me. She said her mom had OD’d. Had she been the one to find her? Even before I ask myself that question, I know the answer. She looks totally blank behind the eyes right now, like she’s doing the compartmentalization Margaret talks about.

So not her first dead body, either. Shit. It’s gotta be so much worse when it’s someone you care about.

That part, I don’t know about. I hope I’ll never have to know.

“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “I’ll do it.”

His pockets produce nothing. There’s nothing to cover him with. Of course Raymond wouldn’t give him the grace of a covering. He’s served his purpose—an outlet to Raymond’s anger.

Fresh kills have him buzzing for days. I know this too well. There were times he’d come home practically vibrating, unable to keep the violence within his skin any longer. He had a hair-trigger always; you never knew when he’d change from charming to choking, but it was so much worse when he came home like that.

“Just keep unraveling it,” I tell her, moving us toward the front of the tent, where the flap is partly unzipped. I peer through the gap. Caleb and Jason are loading the four rifles they have left. They’ve already got the handguns packed up—there are two backpacks set to the side. Raymond stands at the edge of the camp and stares off into the distance.

Who are the men in camo? The question races through my mind. There’s a small part of me that wants it to be Lee, riding in to save me like she’s always promised she will.

But that picture of me on the dead man in the woods had the word TARGET scrawled on the back; that’s what stops me in my tracks and kills all my hope.

If Lee had hired someone to help come get me, she would give them a good photo. One she took herself. And she’d never call me a target.

“Do you have the compass and the cord?”

She nods.

I glance back through the flap. They’ve finished with the guns. The backpacks are unzipped, but there’s only so much time left.

“Okay, listen to me,” I tell her, looking at her with all the unnerving intensity I can muster. “It’ll be easier to get away from them when they put us on the move. If you see an opportunity, you take it, you understand? And if I see one, I’ll say olive and then we run.”

“They’ll shoot—” she protests.

I lick my lips. “It’s harder to hit a moving target,” I say. “Especially if we’re bobbing and weaving. Never move in a straight line, you understand? We move serpentine through those trees. We get away.”

“It’s so risky. If you give him what he wants—”

“Amanda, what Raymond wants is for me to watch every single person I care about die, and then he wants to peel the skin off my body with a fish knife while I’m still conscious.”

She swallows convulsively. “Oh my God.”

“Don’t you dare throw up on me!”

“Why the hell did you come after me?” she blurts out.

That’s the question, isn’t it? Do I even know myself until that moment, when she yanks me out of my instinct and settles me right into my reality?

I could’ve run. I should’ve run right into Iris’s and Wes’s arms. I should’ve taken Emma out of here myself and thought Promise fulfilled because I promised to save Amanda’s sister; I didn’t promise to save her.

But I chose to.

“Abby would’ve left you behind,” I tell her. “And I’m trying really hard not to be like her, okay? So listen to me. We are going to die. Do you understand? They will kill us if we don’t get away. We can’t bargain or blackmail our way out of this. The only thing we can do is run as soon as there’s an opportunity.”

It’s hitting her fully. Sometimes someone has to put it that bluntly. Her breaths snags in her throat, too quick and trembling.

“Get the girls,” I hear Raymond say outside.

“Amanda, tell me you understand,” I say. “When I say olive, you run. Right?”

She’s hyperventilating. Shit.

“Victoria!” I snap my fingers in front of her face. She jerks, her eyes lighting with fury.

There’s the girl I knew. Double-bounce champion of the trampoline with a reckless streak a mile wide.

“If you want to see Emma again, you will get your shit together.”

The scrape of the zipper fills the tent.

“Tell me you’ve got this,” I say under my breath.

“I’ve got this,” she says.

Day Seven. Afternoon

Near the Creek

What I’m working with: 1 paracord unraveled, 1 traumatized frenemy

The three of them march us through the forest, heading right toward the creek.

Caleb said there are fast ways out of the forest. The only quick way out of this forest is by helicopter. In order to land a chopper, you need a clear space.

You need a meadow.

I know exactly what I have to do. It unfolds in my mind like a yellow brick road, shining my way to freedom.

“Stay sharp,” Raymond says in front of us. “In addition to our friends in camo, the other girl and the boy are out there.”

It makes me nervous, how high alert the three of them are. I bet Raymond’s regretting killing Marcus and the other guy off now.

There’s someone else in the forest with us. Someone Raymond didn’t plan for. Someone I didn’t plan for.

It’s got to be Lee. But it can’t be. The photo the dead guy in camo had on him nags at me. It’s like those pictures: find the five things that don’t belong. But I can’t zoom out and see them.

The ground begins to rise, a subtle incline that turns steeper the farther we go. My thighs strain against the rise. By my estimation, we’re only a mile away from the creek. And maybe another mile to the meadow.

I need to do something. Fast. Once he gets me in a helicopter, it’s all over.

“We should call the pilot,” Caleb says from behind me.

“My phone’s in my pack,” Raymond tells him.

“I’ve got mine.” Caleb slows down, and so do Amanda and I. I can feel her looking at me, waiting for my signal. She’ll never try to run without my go, I realize. She’s too scared.

It’s up to me.

Caleb digs in his pocket for the sat phone, stepping forward, past us, leaving the path behind clear.

“Olive on three,” I whisper to Amanda. My hand twitches at my side. Her eyes fix on it.

One.

My muscles tense.

Two.

My feet shift.

Bam!

The gunshot comes out of nowhere, but I react like I’m expecting it. Aren’t I always, in a way, expecting it?

“Down!” I yank Amanda with me, and she’s got little choice about it, since we’re zip-tied together.

Raymond and his men scramble to exchange gunfire. Then it’s nothing but shots spraying around me, and it’s nothing but fear, because I know now: this is not my sister. She would never tell someone to shoot at me. She’d never hire someone this indiscreet.

This is someone else.

And that? That scares the hell out of me.

“Crawl!” I push off on my one free elbow, dragging her across the dirt, heading toward the edge of the embankment. Just another few feet.

I look over my shoulder, trying to track where they are. Raymond’s pinned behind a tree. Caleb’s behind some rocks to the right. The one from the fire tower is dead: shot in the forehead, right between the eyes.

That’s some expert marksman shit, right there.

Raymond’s eyes meet mine from where he’s stuck behind the tree. They widen as he realizes where I’ve positioned us.

He shouldn’t have tied me to his leverage. Now I’m gonna take her away.

“Get them!” he yells at Caleb.

Caleb tries to rise from behind the boulders, but the shots from the tree line pin him back down.

It’s my last chance. I don’t look down. If I do, I won’t do it.

“Tuck in your elbows!” I tell Amanda, and she yells, “What?” over the gunfire whizzing over our heads, and I don’t have time to explain.

I push her off the embankment and get yanked right down with her.

Day Seven. Afternoon.

Off a Cliff

What I’m working with: 1 unraveled paracord, 1 traumatized frenemy

It’s chaos, trying to roll down an embankment. Red dust in my throat, coating my teeth, in my eyes, Amanda shrieking in my ear, trying not to hit my head because said embankment is full of volcanic rock. I suddenly hate the volcano I was so grateful for when I got caught in the creek because my temple glances against a sharp rock. I feel the telltale sting: the skin’s split.

We come to a stop at the bottom, my foot snagged against the bottom of a manzanita bush. Amanda’s half on top of me, and I push her to the side so I can breathe. She lets me—not unconscious limp, thank God, but saggy, like she’s given up.

Now is not the goddamn time to give up!

I go the army commander route. I’m on my feet, ignoring the wet spot spreading down my cheek and neck. No time to check.

“Get up, get up!” I grab her under her left armpit and heave her up like I’m in lifeguard training or something. She doesn’t fight my touch, which worries the hell out of me.

But as soon as she’s set on her feet, she’s running with me as the gunshots start to slow above.

Someone’s winning up there, and if it’s Raymond, we’re screwed.

“Go!” Our wrists are still bound as we disappear into the thick of the trees. Our hands knock together awkwardly as we try to pump our arms and absolutely fail at any kind of symmetry.

It’s clumsy as hell, and the second I see the rock formation in front of us, I yank her toward it. I am right back into the love column with the volcano when I see it.

“Here.”

“Are we gonna hide?” She bends down next to the cluster of rocks.

“No, find a sharp edge.” My free hand runs along the rocks, trying to find a rough enough edge to break the zip-ties. Why did he have to invest in the good ones instead of the cheap ones from the hardware store?

“Ow!” she says, when I bash our wrists against the jut of the rock to my left. She tries to pull back from me, and I think I growl because her eyes widen and she lets me yank her after that.

“You’re hurting me,” she says, trying to keep her voice level as I saw the zip-tie against the rock and blood begins to bead along the plastic—hers and mine. The only way to get free is to cause some massive chafing or dislocate my wrist somehow, so I can grit my teeth and bear the chafing, and so can she. The alternative is much worse.

“Deal with it.”

“You are such a bitch.”

“I’m the bitch who got you away from a gunfight.” Back and forth, back and forth. The plastic is wearing, shaved down by sheer brute force, friction and a volcanic eruption a gazillion years ago.

“You didn’t have to come back for me,” she says, her voice dipping into a whimper as I continue to saw the plastic furiously against the rock. “That wasn’t our deal.”

“Yeah, well, Wes would’ve been mad if I left you,” I say, because I’m not getting into the whole trying-to-be-a-better-person thing with her again. She’ll make fun of me and laugh, and she’ll probably be right, which is more annoying.

“Yeah, right,” she scoffs. “Did you even wait five minutes after I disappeared before you told him everything?”

“I didn’t tell him. I was too busy chasing after you.”

I go back to trying to break us apart. We’ve got to get moving. I can’t hear gunfire anymore.

Someone’s won.

“Wes doesn’t know?” she asks so fast her voice cracks.

“I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t tell him.”

She heaves an angry breath, suddenly looming over me. “You told Iris?”

I refuse to meet her anger with the same. There’s no time. I have to keep trying to get us apart. “Of course I told Iris. You could’ve been a double-cross and working for Raymond.”

“So you got your girlfriend to do your dirty work.”

“You made my girlfriend do your dirty work,” I correct. “You’re lucky,” I tell her. “She’ll be a lot nicer about you than I would. She’s the best person in the world to take on what’s your burden.”

“You’re such a hypocrite,” Amanda says. “You judge me for not telling him. There’s no way you told him the real story about you.”

I stop sawing us apart and look up at her, meeting her dead in the eyes with a sincerity Wes and Iris have both told me is unsettling because it’s always too intense. I would’ve thought she had puzzled it out. But under my surprise is my basest self, the one that whispers: You can use this.

Oh, wow, can I use this.

“Amanda, Wes knows everything about me,” I say. “He and Iris both. They know it all. All the girls, the cons, the marks. Everything me and Abby did.”

Her eyes dart away and then back. “No. You may have told Iris—she’s absolutely insane sometimes, so I can understand her falling for your shit. But not Wes. You gave him some sob story. Like that witness protection cover story you’ve been playing with Raymond.”

God, this is amazing. Emotional gold. She won’t want to be near me after this. She’ll run straight to safety without a thought about coming back.

That’s perfect. They’ll all be safe. I just need to make her mad enough.

“He’s known longer than anyone,” I tell her. “Longer than he’s known you.”

That hits hard. She flinches away, jerking her wrist, and I have no choice but to follow as she backs off the rock.

She swears under her breath and for the first time begins to claw at the zip-tie, trying to twist the mangled plastic apart.

“You’re lying.” She shakes her head to cement it.

I’m going to destroy her world. Once again. I should feel worse about it, ruining whatever idea she has of Wes, but it’s not the truth. And it’s gonna save her life, and that’s my priority over niceness.

I can see her trying to work it through to get to her reality, not mine. It looks painful. Breaking apart your world always is. I know she’s got to be as familiar with the sensation as I am.

We are really weird bedfellows, me and Amanda.

“He would’ve never stayed with you—” she starts.

“I mean, he didn’t stay with me. We broke up.”

“No. You broke up because you cheated on him with one of the cheerleaders,” Amanda says.

“What?!” I ask, totally thrown. That rumor was one I’d never heard. “I did not! Who told you that?”

“I don’t remember, it’s been forever. That’s what everyone said.”

“Oh my God, no one cheated on anyone. Wait.” Something occurs to me. “Which cheerleader likes girls?”

“Who fucking cares!” Amanda says. “Stop lying to me about him and playing your games. That’s what you do. I don’t believe you. He wouldn’t have stayed friends with you if he knew everything you’d done.”

“Because you know him so well.”

I tilt the ground toward me. She doesn’t notice, it’s so smooth.

“I think I know him well.”

“Really.” I dare her and make it obvious. I give her the chance to back off. A choice, because Abby would never. And because what I do next makes me a truly horrible person. A horrible person who’s saving her and the two people I love most, but still, an awful betrayal. That’s the problem with going the Lee route. You have to acknowledge the awful.

“I know him,” she grits back as she continues to tug and pull at the zip-tie uselessly.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath and completely betray my best friend in the name of getting the girl I’m pretty sure he does love out of this damn forest safely.

“If you know your boyfriend so well, why don’t you tell me how Wes got the scars on his back and shoulders?”

She stops tugging at the zip-tie. Looks up at me with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

“He was in an accident with his grandfather’s tractor. He was out of school for weeks. I know you know this.”

“Right. An accident.” I do air quotes and everything. She pales under her tan. “It’s convenient his family has farming equipment to blame. The wounds from the fire poker his dad used to beat him with didn’t really stay closed with the Steri-Strips I was using as he hid out at my house. I didn’t have great nursing skills back then. And I couldn’t take him to the hospital.”

“No. He got hurt … it was an accident …”

The fragments—the unmooring—shouldn’t give me any pleasure. But it does. Because it means she’ll be hurt enough to go.

Tears well up in her eyes as the truth hits her.

I’m not her, but I can picture it. Flipping back to all those moments in my mind, trying to find the clues. I was right there on Route 45 a few days ago. Wes was there when we were fifteen. Iris was there in the bank.

I reach out and twist the zip-tie ruthlessly. The final frazzled piece snaps free.

“Wes is my family. And Iris is the love of my crime-ridden, very unworthy life.”

“Why are you telling me—”

“Because you’re going to go now. You head back to the creek—follow the strips of fleece tied to the trees. You’ll run right into them and Emma, and then you make them get out of this forest.”

“What—no, we both head to the creek.”

“So we can draw Raymond right toward them? No way. You go. Meet up with them. Tearfully reunite with your sister.”

“I fucking hate you,” she snaps.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. That doesn’t change things. You need to go.”

“There is no way those two will leave you behind.”

“Yeah, I know that, too. That’s where you come in.”

“What—no—are you crazy? Iris would maul me like a bear if I suggested it!”

I ignore her protests. She needs to process the plan and get out of here. “All you need to do is get to the fire tower. They destroyed the radio up there, but there’s an access road nearby. Wes will be able to get you out from there.”

She shakes her head. “Nora, listen to me: they won’t leave you.”

“They will because you’ll make them,” I say. “And you’ll make them because Emma is six years old and she doesn’t deserve this.”

“I—”

“Amanda, she’s your sister. She’s innocent. She needs to get out of here, and you need to be the one to get her out. Let’s call it me breaking the generational curse, okay?”

She shakes her head. “No. What do I tell them?” she asks. “How do I make them …” She doesn’t say leave you, but it hangs there like she did.

“You tell them I’m dead. That you saw it happen.” I pause, looking her up and down. “You know how to sell a lie, after all.”

All the vulnerability crumples off her face.

“You’re such an asshole.” She grabs the compass I hold out. And without another word she stalks off, heading toward the creek.

I keep standing, watching her leave, scanning the area long after she disappears. I count my breaths; I shift my legs so they don’t get pins and needles.

Only when I’m sure that she’s gone do I sag to the dirt.

I look at my watch. I wait for it to reach the twelve.

And I give myself exactly ninety seconds to cry.

Then I get up. I wipe my face off.

No more time for tears.

I’ve got a man to kill.

Day Seven. Afternoon.

1 mile from the Creek

I spot the first marker after about twenty minutes. A piece of black fleece tied to a manzanita bush. The relief that it brings … I want to grab that scrap of fabric and press it between the pages of a memory book. Which, I know, is an absurd instinct. This trip would result in a positively bloody memory book.

“See?” I hold out the fabric to Turbo. “It’s Nora.”

She sniffs it, and I know she’s not that kind of dog, but it makes me feel better. I tie it back on the tree, so we can use it on our way back.

Because I’m going to find her. I’ll get her back. Even if I have to shoot Raymond Keane in the head myself.

Wait, no, Wes told me to not aim for the head. The chest. The chest is a better target to aim for because of the size. I can’t get it wrong.

If I aim for Raymond’s head, I’m going to miss. But I can riddle his chest full of bullets. Or, at least, I can try. Surely one of them will hit something important and kill him.

It’s my plan. Crude and rudimentary, sure. Nothing like Nora’s. But it’s mine and it’s going to work.

It has to. If he has her …

Turbo keeps pushing her nose into my hand because tears are leaking silently out of my eyes as I trudge through this forest, trying to spot the next marker so I know at least Nora survived this far.

I don’t know how to deal with this. At least when I was around Wes, I had to keep it together, but I’m not around Wes now and I don’t have to keep it together, and I’m trudging toward my possible death crying like a baby. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I be tougher? I should be tougher by now. I kidnapped an FBI agent! Someone who kidnaps an FBI agent shouldn’t be crying and trudging and in danger all at once. That’s a terrible combination.

Turbo pushes her head into my hand again, and this time her teeth lightly graze my fingers, purposefully not biting down, but grabbing my attention.

I stop, awkwardly lifting the rifle up to my shoulder. It’s too big for me. I’m positive if I shoot it, the kickback’s gonna force me off my feet.

Shuffling in a slow circle, I try to spot whatever Turbo did. She’s not fixed on a certain point like she sometimes is. She circles with me instead, searching, searching …

There. I spot her before Turbo does. A glimpse of gold against a tree in the distance.

“Amanda!” I hiss, running toward her. At the sound of her name, she ducks behind the tree, hiding. I flatten myself against the nearest one. Shit. Is someone with her? Did they hear me?

But then, after a slow, agonizing moment, a shaky, unsure voice breaks through the silence.

“Iris?”

“Yes! It’s me. It’s just me!”

“Iris, oh my God. Iris!” She runs out from behind the tree and toward us. She almost collides with me, grabbing both my hands.

“Are you hurt? You’re all bloody!”

“I’m fine. Oh my God. Where’s Wes? Where’s Emma? Nora said you had Emma!” Her fingers clench around mine.

“Emma’s fine,” I reassure her. “She’s back at the creek with Wes. She’s safe. Nora got her out, like she said she would.”

“Oh thank you, thank you, God.”

More like thank you, Nora.

“Amanda, you said Nora told you about Emma. Where’s Nora?”

“Oh God,” Amanda says, shriveling away from me.

“Amanda, where is she?” I ask.

“There was shooting. She pushed me out of the way.” Amanda’s eyes keep sliding out of focus. They’re kind of … spinny.

“Where is she?” I demand.

“She told me … she told me …”

“What!? What did she tell you?”

Amanda swallows convulsively. I’m on the verge of shaking her, I’m so anxious. And then, finally, her eyes lock on mine.

“She wanted me to lie,” Amanda says. “She saved me, and she told me to lie. To tell you that she’s dead, so you’d take Emma out of here. But she’s not dead.”

“Of course she’s not dead!” I snap.

“She went after him,” Amanda says. “We need to go. We need to help her. Right? Right? She’s crazy. But she saved my sister, and she came back for me even though she didn’t promise. I didn’t even tell her to come back, Iris. She just did it. She just risked it. And I was wrong about her and I thought I was right and I hate her but I can’t just let her die. I hate her, but I can’t let her die, can I? I can’t, can I, Iris?”

“Amanda.” I put myself right in front of her. “Breathe with me. In and out. Come on. Match my breathing.”

We breathe, slow and steady, until she doesn’t look like she’s about to fly apart. It takes forever. It takes too long.

“We have to go,” Amanda says.

“Yes,” I say.

“We have to go get her,” she says, and her voice breaks, like it’s torture, like it’s turning her skin inside out and exposing every nerve Abby shredded in her as a child. “Iris, he’s going to kill her.”

“No,” I say. “He’s not.”

Not if I have anything to do with it.

I’m good at saving things.

And I am great at saving her.

I won’t break my streak now.

Day Seven. Afternoon.

Up the Cliff

What I’m working with: absolutely nothing

I go straight back to the scene of the crime, so to speak. As soon as I’m sure Amanda is off and heading south to the creek, I climb up the embankment, slowly and painfully.

The nice thing about the mountains is that even when the elevation is working against you, there are enough exposed tree roots to use as handholds. I’m panting and filthy by the time I get to the top of the embankment where the shoot-out occurred, but all that’s there is the dead man, left for the wildlife to pick on.

I creep toward the body. Maybe there’s a knife or something on him. I don’t get within ten feet of him before a shot rings out.

I’m too far from the rocks Caleb used to hide. The trees are the same story. I’ve got no way to hide.

I can only run.

No time to pick a direction. No time to contemplate if it’s Raymond or whoever shot at all of them.

I run for my life, ears ringing.

Crack. Another bullet. He’s picking his shots, not spraying the air with bullets. He’s trying to sniper me out of existence.

I weave, hoping I chose the right direction. The sting starts out sharp in my shoulder and then heat gushes down my back and I am getting tired of falling on the ground, let me tell you. But that’s exactly what I do. My cheek slams into the ground, my body only half-braced because my right arm is not working. I can’t put weight on it at all. It’s all rubbery and weird, I realize as I lie face-first in the dirt.

I roll over on my side and look at my shoulder. I prod at my arm—that’s definitely blood—and then I nearly puke when my finger squelches too deep into my shoulder and then my finger is kind of inside my body, the wound is that big.

And that’s when it dawns on me: I’ve been shot.

“Oh, Lee’s gonna be so mad.” I pull my fingers out of my arm flesh. Ew. And ow. And shit.

It’s starting to hurt. A lot.

I’ve never been shot before. I need to get up before he does it again. I push off my left arm this time. It’s all very lopsided, but I manage.

I get two steps before his hand clamps down on my neck. I didn’t hear him come up; I guess getting shot can mess with your awareness. Gotta put that in my Getting Shot knowledge list.

I try to elbow him with the only usable arm I’ve got left, but that really hurts the shot shoulder, and it’s useless.

Caleb’s got me. So I go limp. It hurts less when I’m limp.

“I can’t wait until he lets me kill you,” he growls as he drags me through the trees.

“Is that the prize?” I slur out. I need to focus and I’m having trouble. My back is wet with blood. I need the world to snap into focus. There’s a way out of this. I just need to see it.

I think I lose time, because the trees and ground blur and the blood slows to a trickle and my shoulder throbs and then my brain snags on the scrap of fleece I see, the one I tied to the bush.

We’re headed back toward the meadow. Toward my friends, not away.

I need to stop him. I need to do something.

But Caleb is calling Raymond’s name, the triumphant scavenger returning with his plunder, and I freeze, trying to get my brain to work as he comes out from where he’s been sitting under a tree, all casual like he’s not getting ready to kill me.

He’s got Jill strapped to his leg.

The pain is so sharp it’s hard to think. I need that knife. But I need to run more. That’s simple enough. And at least Caleb didn’t shoot me in the foot.

“I got her!” Caleb says. “The other one’s gone, but I got her!”

Raymond’s smiling as he turns to look at us, and then that smile goes poof as soon as he sees me.

“She’s hurt,” he says.

“I had to. She wouldn’t go down otherwise. I didn’t hit anything important. I told you I’d get her, by any means necessary.”

He shoves me to the ground.

Raymond’s eyes narrow.

This is so bad. How can he not see how bad this is? It’s like watching a child dive into shark-infested waters because they dropped a lollipop.

“You brought her back, unlike the others,” Raymond says.

Caleb smiles. I suddenly understand the word beatific, because that’s what I see on his face. A holy kind of relief. He’s finally been praised by his master. His eyes don’t drift shut—that’s too much.

Which makes it more chilling: he’s looking straight at Raymond, blissful and basking in the warmth of his approval, when Raymond raises his gun.

“But I told you not to hurt her.”

The crack rings in my ears, making me cry out. Wet hits my face. Little droplets. I don’t scream. I can’t. I know what it is. Warm and sticky.

I don’t run as Caleb crumples like a scarecrow that’s lost his stuffing. If I run, I’m dead.

If I don’t, I’m dead.

I’m just dead.

I hold my ground as Raymond steps toward me—over Caleb’s body like he’s trash—and cups my bloody cheek.

The touch makes me flinch right back into something soft and scared so fast it would terrify me if I had any sense.

But that’s gone, too.

There’s only him. His eyes staring down at me, joyous like he was on his wedding day staring down at Abby.

“Ashley.”

I’m too scared to tell him that’s not my name.

He smears the blood across my cheek. It mingles with the tear that leaks out of my eye.

“There you are, my good girl.”

Day Seven. Afternoon.

Near the Meadow

What I’m working with: nothing but me

I do the only thing a girl can do when she’s got one working arm and a creepy man smears blood and tears all over her face and says shit like that.

I stab my fingernails into his fucking eyeballs. I don’t jab them. I stab them.

Do you know how careful you have to be, dating another girl and having long fingernails? It takes focus. Effort.

But oh, his bellow of pain … it makes it worth it.

His grip loosens. But it’s not enough to tear away. Instead he throws me onto the forest floor, my wounded shoulder hitting the ground first.

When he pulls the machete out, I scream my fucking head off. I wish I could scream my shoulder off. I would like that entire part of my body to go away, thank you very much.

“Stop that,” he scolds. He runs his hand over his face, blood dripping from his eyes where I gouged him. He flicks it onto the ground, right onto me.

I flinch away, rolling to the side. “Do it,” I pant. I slowly get to my feet, because he doesn’t stop me and I’m certainly not gonna die on the ground. If I hold my arm really stiff, it doesn’t hurt as much.

“Go ahead and kill me.”

His expression turns from angry to puzzled.

“You’re my daughter,” he says. “I’d never kill you.”

Then he drops the knife.

It’s the scariest thing he’s ever done, saying that, so sincerely, almost earnestly, no pretense, no fakeness, followed by that fucking mic-drop of the knife, too far away for me to reach.

I didn’t see it. The dueling truths, both sealing my fate.

His truth: I am his daughter. His possession. Another weapon to collect, like the antique cleavers.

My truth: freedom’s just another thing to lose. Abby warned me. I didn’t listen.

Oh God, I didn’t listen.

I can’t move. I’m stuck, my muscles cement. He doesn’t need to hold me. I’m caught in his web once again, a spinning fly buzzing down to zero as the spider wraps me tight.

“I’m taking you home with me,” he says like it’s obvious, and Run, run, he’ll never let you go screams through my head. “I’ll take care of you until your mother’s out of prison. My lawyers are already working on her appeal. It shouldn’t take more than a few months. You’ll be waiting for her when she’s free. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

If I tried to speak right now, nothing would come out.

“All she talks about is being a family again. You broke her heart. Not once, but twice, showing up after all these years, threatening us like that, looking like that. But you don’t have to worry, Ashley. We love you. We can put this behind us once you apologize.”

“Apologize?” The word wrenches out of me.

“You’ve hurt your mother terribly,” he says. “You betrayed her. You run off and don’t tell her where you are for years. You cut your beautiful hair. You dress like … I don’t even know what. And then you have the temerity to finally show up and threaten your parents?” He actually clucks his tongue at me. “I see now where I went wrong. I tried to spoil you like a princess. I wanted to protect you like you were a girl. But you’re not. You’re a wild animal. Wild animals don’t need protection. They need training. To be tamed and given an objective. And then they need to be unleashed. But no matter. I’ll do it right this time around. Look at how you’ve been living on your own. You’re desperate for direction.”

My body might be cement, but my mind never is. I always see the in when it presents itself. I’ll never be free of this, the way my brain works, the way I see things. I might as well use it.

His plan is to keep me trapped somewhere, waiting for Abby, and then living with the two of them again like some sort of criminal doll he can train and batter into doing his bidding, and I would rather die right here and now.

All I have to do is make him so angry he gives up on keep and moves right into kill.

A fatal blow to the ego.

A killer blow to his faith in Abby.

The most closely held secret.

“I actually wasn’t living on my own,” I say.

The meadow is right ahead. I just need to get past him and run toward it. He’ll follow.

“I forgot,” he says. “The marshal. She’ll be taken care of.”

“Lee’s not a marshal,” I say. “Lee’s my sister.”

It flickers across his face like a wet match, fizzling into smoke. Confusion, followed by denial. “What are you talking about?”

“Abby never told you about her, I guess. Who do you think was helping me bug your mansion and break into your safe? Lee’s smart. She’s a lot older than me, you know. Her dad, he was the only guy Abby ever loved. He died. Lee pre-dates the con. She’s from a whole different life. The secret one Abby didn’t share with you. You know why?”

His breath rattles leaving his body. He’s as transfixed as he was that day at the country club.

Lean in. Work the pause. Sell it.

“Because deep down, Abby knows: you’re just a mark.”

He rips out of his shock, coming to life. I’m ready for him. His arms swipe wide to grab me and I run forward, ducking as I do, and I time it right; his arm sails over me and I dash forward, past him, through the trees and full tilt as his angry bellow sends birds scattering.

I freak out for a split second as I run, because brains. Blood and brains on my face. But then I push down the pain and I’m purely in survive, run, kill mode.

My feet pound against the ground, and when I burst into the clearing and the ground fades to grass, I hesitate, looking around frantically, trying to remember, trying to place the traps. Find the rock, find the rock, find it, where is it?

“Ashley!” he yells behind me, and then something zips past my shoulder, too fast to be anything but a bullet.

It’s the worst idea in the world: running into the middle of a field when someone’s shooting at you. But I do it anyway.

It’s the only plan I’ve got.

I sprint toward the middle of the meadow, scanning the ground for the rock, my attention split.

Big mistake. He’s fast for a man his age.

We both tumble to the ground. I bite down on my tongue from the impact. He lets out a grunt of pain behind me as he rises to his feet. He’s got the machete in his hand. If he’s going to do it, he’s going to do it with a knife. I always knew that.

I cough blood into the dirt, trying to breathe, trying to press up with my good arm … and that’s when my hand hits it.

The rock. Smooth and round under my palm.

My stomach somersaults.

I look to my left and yes, yes, I did it.

It’s the stone Iris placed in the meadow to mark the spot.

We’re right next to the booby trap.

Day Seven. Afternoon.

Near the Meadow

“Did you hear that?” I ask.

“What?” Amanda looks around frantically, like she’s about to spiral into another panic attack.

“I thought I heard …” I strain my ears. “Maybe I didn’t.” I’m about to dismiss it when I glance down at Turbo. The hair on her back is raised in a scruffy line. I didn’t know some dogs could react like that until Turbo chased off the bear that got all curious about Lee’s pool a few months ago.

“What is it, girl?” I ask her.

“Iris, she can’t answer,” Amanda says.

“Shush,” I say, watching Turbo closely. She’s not tugging at the leash; she’s staring off into the distance, hackles raised.

“We need to hide,” I tell Amanda. “Come on.”

I’m pulling Turbo toward a cluster of trees ahead when I hear it again: louder this time.

A girl’s scream.

“That I heard,” Amanda says. “Which direction did that come from?”

“The meadow!” Of course. She doesn’t have any weapons. She’d lead him to the only place we weaponized. “She’s at the meadow! Come on!”

Amanda keeps up with me, which is good because I’m not slowing down for anything. I’m not as fast as I want—the pain low in my belly is persistent—and we’ve got a ways to go. But I’m gonna get there.

I saved her once; I can save her again.

I have to.

Day Seven. Afternoon.

The Meadow

What I’m working with: 1 booby trap

The thing about a good con is that you want the mark to brush up against it, once, twice, a few times, and by the time they’re even contemplating the ask, they’ve already committed; they just don’t know it.

It’s the same thing with death.

You brush up against it, once, twice, a few times, twisting free each time, but in the end you’re the ultimate mark if you think you’ve truly escaped.

I lie there on the ground next to the trap. I can feel him moving next to me, but I don’t get up. If I try before he does, it won’t work. Blood in my mouth, blood down my back, blood on my hands.

I hate that I didn’t get to kiss Iris one more time. Even if it was an I’m really gonna die this time kiss.

I can’t overpower him with only one arm. My only hope is to push him into the pit with the only force I’ve got: my whole body.

This is it. The end.

I start laughing. An unhinged cackle that’s gotta grate.

I’m gonna die, but I’m gonna win.

“Stop it,” he says, because that’s the thing about terrible men. They can’t stand a woman’s well-earned joy. And I have earned the hell out of this momentary joy before I die.

“Nope,” I say, popping the p for effect before dissolving back into bloody giggles.

He digs his fingers into my bullet wound, and yep, that stops the giggling and starts the screaming. No one’s strong enough to sustain that. Blinding-white and so intense, I can’t see through the pain.

“Quiet,” he grinds out, finally pulling away. My vision slowly clears back to regular as I try to catch my breath.

“I know something you don’t,” I pant as he staggers to his feet.

The dull flush crawls up his neck.

I know all the signs of his anger. The only way I survived so long in that house was by making an art out of reading him.

I need to push. So the red crawls farther up his neck. So his eyes turn bright. So his fingers start to twitch, like they’re longing for a cleaver.

He needs to shatter into rage. And lucky for me, I’m his biggest trigger.

“I’ve already won,” I tell him.

“You’re delusional,” he says firmly. “The wound’s getting to you.”

I shake my head. “I knew.”

There’s that flicker across his face again. Doubt. A seed, but I can make it grow.

“I knew you were waiting for me in the forest.”

He lets out an impatient tut. “I was aware of that as soon as you took the girl, Ashley.”

“But you haven’t thought it through,” I sing-song. “I had forty-eight hours to prepare. Do you know how much time that is when you’re someone like me?”

“My men were watching you, you didn’t do anything—”

“Oh, I did,” I say. “I did a ton. I set up the drop of a very special item. I think you’d recognize it. Last time you saw it, it was in your safe.”

He reaches a danger-level color of red, positively scarlet. I’m half convinced he might give himself a rage-attack and drop right there.

“It doesn’t matter what you do,” I say. “You don’t kill me; I win. You kill me; I win. You were in the dark about too much. And I was steps ahead. You didn’t even know I had a sister. A sister who uploaded your blackmail files online for me as soon as I missed the six-day checkpoint. Bidding should be reaching a frenzy at this point. My bet is that Mr. Taylor’s file will be the biggest seller. He is a shoo-in for the vice-presidency, after all. What’s your bet? I’ll put ten whole dollars on Taylor.”

He says nothing. You cannot say anything in the face of such defeat.

You can only respond the way a man like him always does.

Force.

He hauls me up by my shirt collar with his free hand, which is a mercy because if he grabbed my shoulder I think I’d pass out. But then his hand moves to my throat, clamping down, and it’s too fast. His rage seems to be working adrenaline-wise like it does for those mothers who go all mega-mom and lift cars off their trapped kids. But Raymond’s adrenaline is focused on one thing: killing me.

I choke under the vicious pressure of his hand. My feet dangle instead of staying on the ground and I have no purchase, no force to launch myself—and him—forward and into the booby trap. I kick out, desperate to connect with something, and there. I hit his knee. Hard enough for him to lower me as he tries to recover. His hands drop. I cough and spit, blood and tears mixing on my chin.

My shoes hit the grass; I dig my toes in, looking around wildly for the rock. We’re still close enough to the pit. I have to respond; this is the moment. Maybe if I twist the right way, the spears won’t hit all my organs.

Think of Iris one last time and tackle him in.

Eyes open. Face him through the pain-blur. You’re going to be the last thing he sees.

I blink furiously, trying to clear my vision. My toes dig into the dirt. My left hand scrabbles against his arm, pushing uselessly at him.

It flickers over his shoulder. I’m seeing things through the haze. That movement on the tree line … it’s not real.

But no. No. It is.

She’s running so fast. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her run that fast. Full-out sprinting toward us. Flying across the grass like a rocket.

He doesn’t see her. His back’s to her; his focus is on me. His anger is on me.

I start laughing again. I can’t stop myself. It’s so absurd. It’s so insane.

“It’s time to stop now.” Raymond’s hand settles on my neck again, and it’s almost soft for a second, like he thinks he’s a god giving me a blessing.

His eyes, they go so calm. Blue and clear like a summer’s day as he begins to squeeze. It’s like every inch of life draining out of me drains the anger out of him.

Tears drip from my eyes. They focus on him. But I can see her.

She’s so close. Almost there.

“You need to stop fighting your family,” he scolds, ever the disappointed father. “You hurt your mother so much.”

His fingers dig at my throat, too tight. Crushing pressure.

My lips tremble. My eyes bulge. My brain fuzzes.

His shoulders ease. His eyes close so he can relish my brokenness.

But I’m not broken.

My mouth twists. I bring my knee up, swift and hard, right into his groin. He lets out a surprised grunt, his hand falling away.

I suck in air. Beautiful, beautiful, sputtering, painful, raw-throated air.

I dodge away as he swings the machete awkwardly toward me, but I’m out of reach, raising my fist high.

She circles into position.

Her growl fills the air. He doesn’t even have time to turn.

I’ve already given the command.

“Achilles!”

Turbo launches herself at Raymond, going right for his ankles.

Day Seven. Afternoon.

The Meadow

What I’m working with: 1 booby trap, 1 very good girl

There’s a sound when teeth pierce flesh and tendon all the way down to bone. It’s primal. It wakes something wired into your DNA from long ago, something ancient that perks up and says run.

But I can’t obey that voice. I rush forward instead, into the spitting ball of human and dog that teeters on the edge of the pit. Turbo’s clamped down on his right ankle and won’t let go. She’s trying to shake him off his feet like I taught her, but he’s too big. He keeps rebalancing, trying to get her off.

The machete arcs in the air, catching the light, and he swings it down and back blindly, toward Turbo. He misses, and I reach forward with my good arm as he starts to wind up again, my fingers hooking around her collar.

You gotta be fast.

The machete swings toward us.

Freedom’s just another thing to lose.

“Release!” I yell, yanking Turbo back with all my strength left.

She lets go, and the combination of him swinging that machete and the sudden lack of dog dragging him down shifts his momentum.

He spins, putting too much weight on his bitten ankle. He has barely enough time to let out a pained grunt and then he wobbles off center … right into the trap.

There’s a sound when wood pierces flesh and organ all the way through.

It sounds like freedom.

Day Seven. Afternoon.

The Meadow

What I’m working with: 1 booby trap, 1 very good girl

I stumble to the edge of the trap, my heart roaring in my ears as I cradle my bad arm.

I stare down at him, trying to absorb what’s happening. Turbo’s tail thumps against my leg, my knees suddenly grinding into the meadow grass as I fall to them and Raymond bleeds out below me.

Wes was right. Anyone who fell into the big pit would be dead within minutes.

Blood pours from where spikes—six of them—pierce flesh with each shuddering breath he takes.

“You did it,” he says. “You killed me.” He lets out a confused laugh that turns into a grimace. The pain’s hitting him.

I can’t believe it’s happening. It’s really happening. It really worked. I am so glad that it’s gutting. Like my entire body needs to be scooped of organs so I can be filled with glad.

“You did this to yourself,” I say. “You started this, the first and this time. You came after me every time. You knew better. But you never learned: you should’ve walked away.” My words jumble, my voice high-pitched. That slow slide of shock wraps around me.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to believe I was as dangerous as him.

I guess I proved that wrong.

“I couldn’t,” he confesses. “I couldn’t,” he repeats, almost puzzled. “You … her …” His voice softens. His eyes flicker. “You were a masterpiece. And the kind of woman who can create that …” Tears track down his cheek. “She’s such an artist.” I hate the choked admiration in his voice. The love.

These twisted assholes. They were made for each other. She’s gonna grieve the hell out of him. The way she never grieved when she lost me and Lee.

“She made you perfect.” He coughs. Struggling to breathe.

“Abby,” he sighs her name, like a comforting prayer, and it snaps something in me. It slips free, so easy, second nature still … probably second nature forever.

Because he’s right. I am a masterpiece. I am the fucking Mona Lisa.

I lean forward, so he can see my eyes. So the horror in his will fill mine.

“Did you honestly think Abby was her real name, Raymond?”

His eyes widen.

I laugh. Ringing out. I hope the echo of it’ll be in his ears.

“That’s cute,” I tell him, clinching it with condescension. “Even after you found out she had a whole secret daughter?”

“No—” he protests.

He never understood her.

He never really knew her.

He never will.

“It’s the first rule she teaches her daughters. All men are marks. And we don’t give our real names to the marks.”

He sucks in a breath, a violent rejection of what I’m saying.

It’s the last he takes.

He’s gone.

It’s done.

Day Seven. Afternoon.

The Meadow

What I’m working with: 1 very good girl

The sky’s so blue.

I’ve been lying here, in front of the pit, Turbo half draped over my stomach.

That’s probably creepy. The lying in front of the pit part, not the dog part.

I don’t mean it to be. But I’m really tired and shot and in shock and stuff.

I know I need to get up. I gotta do something about my shoulder. The blood seems to have stopped, though, and I think that’s good.

Lee’s gonna be so mad I got shot.

Lee.

Oh, God. I gotta call Lee. Where’s his pack? I need the sat phone.

Turbo’s head goes tense on my stomach, and I push up with my good arm, scared that the men in camo are back.

But instead, it’s the sweetest sight in the world.

“Nora!”

Her scream breaks through the fuzzing in my head. Iris. My entire body curls into the thought of her. She found me.

“I’m okay,” I call weakly, trying to get to my feet, but I am so fucking wobbly.

Iris races across the meadow. I need to warn her. If she looks in the pit—

Turbo licks my face in encouragement as it takes me two more tries to get up. “I’m okay,” I say again, waving toward her as she skids to her knees down next to me. “It’s okay.”

“What happened? Oh my God, when Amanda said he got you—”

“You found her?”

“She’s in the tree line. I didn’t know if you were—” Her eyes finally settle on me. “Oh my God,” she says. “Oh my God!”

Her hands frantically press against my chest and then my shoulder, and then she puts one hand over my right boob and one on my shoulder like she can’t decide where the wound is.

“Ow, ow, ow, please don’t.”

“You’re bleeding!”

“I kind of got shot. It’s okay.”

“What? No!” Her hands pull away to wave in front of me like she’s afraid to touch. “You cannot kind of get shot! Is it through and through? Is it inside you? Nora, are you walking around with a bullet inside you?”

“I’m not sure. Iris, you gotta focus.”

“You’ve been shot! We need a helicopter!” She looks around like she expects one to appear.

“Iris!”

Her gaze snaps to mine, instead of fixing on all the blood.

“Look in the pit.”

Her eyes widen, and then she slowly walks over to the edge.

“Oh my God,” she says. She turns to look at me, then at Turbo’s bloody maw.

“Nora,” she says. “What did you do?”

(in order of priority)

Day Seven

12. My father (dealt with)

11. Wes’s dad (blackmailed by Nora)

10. Duane Collins (lit on fire; currently in prison)

9. Burnt henchman

8. Marcus

7. Caleb

6. North’s mercenary #1 (wounded by booby trap; at large)

5. North’s mercenary #2

4. North’s mercenary (MIA)

3. Abigail Deveraux (to be determined)

2. Agent Marjorie North (in Wes’s custody)

1. Raymond Keane (slain by Turbo)

Day Seven. Afternoon.

The Meadow

I stare down at Raymond Keane. Or what is left of Raymond Keane. I thought I’d be sick or something, seeing a dead body like this.

But I’m not even close to queasy. He can’t hurt her anymore. It’s the most amazing thought. One of the biggest threats to her life, gone, just like that. Incredible. It’s like this weight on my chest is suddenly gone.

A piece of worry, carved out of my heart.

“Nora, what did you do?” I ask her.

“Okay, so technically I didn’t do anything,” Nora says.

“What?” I ask faintly.

“The dog did it. Actually, that’s not completely right, either. ’Cause I yanked her back. She attacked him, and he was trying to kill her with the machete, so I yanked her collar and told her to release, and he fell back when she let go.”

“You didn’t push him?”

She points to her shoulder. Her shot shoulder, oh my God, we need to get her to a doctor. “I wasn’t strong enough.”

“It was an accident? He fell in?”

“I mean, I was planning on pushing him,” she says. “I needed to tackle him into it because that seemed like the only way I’d be able to overpower him.”

“You were going to sacrifice yourself.” I am not impressed, and I am nowhere near willing to hide it.

Her guilty expression is not helping things. “I didn’t, though!”

“That does not get you off the hook! Oh my God. We can talk about it later. We need to go.” I look at my watch. It’s only ten minutes before Wes expects me back, and the meadow’s at least two miles from the creek. “Amanda’s waiting.”

“She was not supposed to let you come after me,” Nora grumbles.

“Well, good thing she disobeyed you!” I say.

I help her slowly to her feet, trying not to make a face when I see how stained with blood the back of her shirt is. Her T-shirt is a mess, but the blood isn’t fresh. I can’t believe she has a bullet inside her. Or maybe not. Maybe it went through. That’s better, right? It’s good that it’s in her shoulder and not in her leg. There aren’t any important arteries in the shoulder, I don’t think. Or maybe there are and I’m forgetting my anatomy and goddamn it, why didn’t I learn more anatomy?

I shake it off, running my hand through my hair and swallowing hard.

“Where’s his bag?” Nora asks. “And the machete. I need the machete.”

“I can get you a new machete.”

“No, I need it,” she insists. “There.” She points to the ground.

I pick up Jill, handing it to her. She lets out a sigh of relief and then, to my utter surprise, she presses her thumb against the screw at the bottom of Jill’s handle.

The handle slides open, exposing a hidden compartment.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I say when I see what she’s got inside: a thumb drive. “Is that what I think it is?”

“I wasn’t about to leave the blackmail file at home,” Nora says, sliding the handle back in place. “I need his bag. He had a sat phone. We can call Lee. We’ll head to the fire tower. It’s an easy landmark for the search-and-rescue helicopter. We need to hurry. There’s some other people in the forest—I think one of Raymond’s enemies followed him into the woods. These guys in camo kept showing up. I saw one for myself—well, his body. And another one shot at us. That’s how Amanda and I got away. I don’t want to mess with them again.”

She starts to walk toward the pack that he ditched halfway across the meadow, but when I don’t follow, she turns around.

“What?”

“I know who the guys in camo are,” I say. “Wes and I caught one in a booby trap.”

“You did? That’s great.”

“Uh, not really? Because of who they work for.”

“Iris …”

“Okay, don’t get mad.”

“Three words guaranteed to cause the opposite of what you want,” Nora says.

“The guys were mercenaries that Marjorie North hired. She brought a team in to … catch Raymond in the act of being a criminal so she could arrest him again, I guess you could say. But she really sucks at it; she didn’t even know Emma got kidnapped or who Amanda was. And she had your bandanna, and I wasn’t sure if she had you or not. I had to check. So I kind of kidnapped her?”

“What.” It’s not a question. It’s just … a what.

“And I figured, if she didn’t have you, that I might be able to use her as bait,” I say. “Turnabout’s fair play, after all.”

“Iris,” she says, staring at me. “Were you … were you gonna trade her for me and Amanda or something?”

“Not actually. But I was considering creating the illusion. It doesn’t matter now.”

“I mean, it kind of does, since you took her! Where is she now?”

“Back at the mine shaft with Wes and Emma.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“Wait, aren’t you going to call Lee?”

“Hell no,” Nora says. “Not yet. She’s already gonna kill me for pulling all this shit with Raymond and not telling her. Now I’ve kidnapped her ex?!”

“You didn’t have anything to do with that—”

“Iris, she is a federal agent.”

“She wasn’t acting very federal agenty when she brought hired guns into the forest instead of FBI agents!”

“Good point,” she says, and it’s like I’ve flipped a switch to the gears in her brain because her head tilts like she’s considering it. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. You kidnapped North. We’ll figure it out.”

“We will?”

She turns, looking at the pit. “Yeah,” she says. “We will.”

“Okay?”

We look at each other, still standing. I almost can’t believe it.

“Get over here,” she says, and I step toward her until I’m right in front of her.

“We’re alive,” I say, because it seems incredible.

“We’re alive,” she agrees.

She slides her good hand up my cheek, drawing me close. She kisses me, and until that moment I had refused to contemplate ever losing her. But now that she’s safe, now that she’s here, kissing me, it floods in. The fear. The worry. The terrible thought: What if I have to miss you for the rest of my life?

I kiss her on that field of death and survival, and I know, deep in my heart.

To know Nora O’Malley is to love her.

To love Nora O’Malley is to fight to keep her.

I’ve known her. I’ve loved her. I’ve fought for her.

And now?

I will never lose her.

Day Seven. Afternoon.

What I’m working with: 1 rifle, 1 handgun, my sling pack, Raymond’s pack, a sat phone, Jill the machete, 1 very good girl

“You broke your promise,” is the first thing I say to Amanda when I see her.

“You pushed me off a cliff,” is what she says back.

“I did that to save your life.”

“So did I,” she snaps back, and fuck, I walked right into that, and I hate that she gets the last word.

We don’t say much else. Before we head out, Iris makes a sling out of what’s left of her fleece, looping my shot arm into it. I only scream once. I’m very proud of myself.

“Shit, Nora,” Amanda says.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Shut up,” Iris tells me. “It’s not bleeding as much as I thought it would. I can’t tell if that’s good or bad. We need to get you to someone who actually knows.”

“We’ve gotta deal with North first,” I say, as she double knots the sling around my neck. It feels way better supported now that it’s not dangling like a dead weight next to me.

North has fucked up my smooth departure from this situation. All I had to do was get to the fire tower and call it in. It was self-defense. I’d need a lawyer or something, but I would’ve been fine.

And now we’re all screwed unless I think of something fast.

It’s hard to focus. I feel like I’m floating. I’m not sorry at all. There’s this gossamer-thin giddiness taking over me, and I’m aware enough to know I shouldn’t be giddy, but I can’t help it.

But that giddiness is quickly driven away by dread when I realize in about fifteen minutes I’m going to see not just Agent North, but Wes.

Shit. I’ve been distracted by everything. Now I have to face the music. I should’ve asked Iris how he reacted, but we’d been a little busy, what with the FBI agent kidnapping that’s been happening.

Lee will insist I go to college after this, I know it.

My stomach tightens with every step we get closer. When the mine shaft comes into sight, my heart picks up like it wants to walk off and leave me to this mess myself. But before Iris can duck inside first, a crow’s cawing rings out.

She hesitates, looking to the right, and Wes steps out of the trees, Emma at his side.

“AMANDA!” Emma tears away from him the second she sees her sister, running as fast as her legs can carry her. Amanda lets out a sob, sprinting to Emma, crashing to the ground to hug her, holding her so tight I can almost feel the embrace. All I can hear her say, over and over, is “I’m sorry.”

I step cautiously toward Wes, not knowing what to do, what to say. What’s been said.

He’s looking at Amanda and Emma at first, not at me, his eyes glittering with relief and pain all twined together. I know that expression too well. It used to be directed at me.

“What happened?” he asks, his eyes flickering down to my arm.

“Oh, she got shot,” Iris says.

“You say that like I did it on purpose.”

“Let me see.” He steps forward.

“Iris did a good job on the sling.”

He touches the fleece lightly. “Wes,” I say, because he won’t look at me, only my arm. “Wes, please. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “I should’ve known better, that I wouldn’t be the exception.”

That fucking hurts more than the bullet.

“Wes,” Iris says, her tone dropping into an almost scold.

He finally meets my eyes. “Is he still out there? Or did you do it?”

I shake my head. “It’s over.”

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice deepening with relief.

“Yeah,” I say.

“She needs a doctor,” Iris says. “We need to go.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

His hands hover over my shoulders, like he’s afraid to touch me. I guess all of me is kind of bloody and injured at this point.

He leans forward, finally deciding on a spot. He presses a kiss, hard and swift against my forehead. When he pulls back, his lips are dotted red.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says. “You look like you’ve been through a goddamn war.”

“I gotta see North.”

“Nora, you’ve been shot,” Iris says.

“But the sling is really helping! And I’ll still be shot in an hour. We’re losing daylight, Iris. You’re right, we need to go. But I have to talk to her first.”

“I was worried she’d overheat in the mine shaft. She’s tied up about fifty feet in.”

“Okay,” I say, trying to stamp down my nerves.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Iris says. “If we’re going to go, we should get your arm cleaned up and go. Right now. What if her remaining mercenaries find us? One of them’s got to be limping something awful from the trap, but the other one we have to assume is fine.”

“Iris, no way,” I say. “We can’t leave her.”

“It’s not like I’m suggesting we leave her to the bears,” Iris continues. “She’ll be able to get free of the ropes and hike out if Wes loosens them and we move fast. But we need a good head start by the time she gets free.”

“And then you two can spend your life on the lam because you kidnapped a federal agent?” I ask. “She won’t stop, Iris. I would say she’s a dog with a bone, but comparing her to a dog seems insulting to the entire canine species.” I shake my head. “No, we need to fix this.”

“We should just go,” Iris says again.

“I need to talk to her,” I insist.

“You can’t convince her to pardon us,” Iris says. “She is the most irrationally stubborn person I have ever met in my life. I hate her.”

“She’s such an asshole,” Wes agrees solemnly.

“I am not disagreeing. But I have to talk to her.”

Iris stares at me like she’s looking for an answer in my face. I can’t really give her one. Maybe I’m being as irrationally stubborn as North.

“I’ll let you clean my wound after,” I offer.

“I’m going to do that anyway. Go.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” I tell her.

“You don’t—”

“I promise,” I interrupt softly.

Her entire face, it melts. In a good, sweet way. Not in a scary candlewax way.

“You can’t do that,” she says, even as she reaches over to grab my hand gently.

I raise her bandaged fingers to my lips, pressing them there. “I just did.”

Reluctantly, I pull away from her and head toward the trees. “Be back in a bit.”

I walk toward the one woman who’s had such a hand in my life, but never my creation.

North looks older. Deep grooves around her mouth, her chin sharper than ever. Her hands are tied behind her instead of in front. Iris never forgets a detail once she’s taught one. She’s like a sponge for criminal lessons. It’s both impressive and scary.

When I come into view through the trees, North’s eyes get big.

“It’s you,” she says. It’s comes out almost surprised.

I smile, too bloody, too tilting, too crazed, but it’s been that kind of week.

“It’s kind of like seeing Bigfoot, right?”

That gets a breath out of her that I swear, in another woman, might be a laugh. But I don’t think there’s any mirth in North. Not when it comes to me.

I kneel down in front of her, a good six feet away to be cautious. I keep Jill on my knee, loose and as casual as you can get with a machete.

Her eyes skip over the knife to the sling, then they rove over my face, like she’s trying to imprint me in her brain as I am now, before I run off and find a new girl to be. I can’t blame her for that. I’m the person who wrecked her life but made her career, and we’ve never been face-to-face. I’ve seen her, but she’s never seen me. Lee made sure of it.

She’s gotta be desperate at this point. I would be. I’d be scared out of my mind. And I’m not even as scary as North thinks I am. The Nora in her head is a lot crazier than the Nora I am, and I’m gonna use that. I’ve gotta, since Iris kidnapped her and everything. I shouldn’t find that so attractive, but I’ve had enough therapy to admit I do.

“We finally meet,” North says.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? All this time and we never have.”

“Your sister guarded you. I guess that makes you her dirty little secret. How does that feel?”

“Aw, come on, that’s your strategy? To lash out and try to hurt my feelings?” I cluck my tongue. “That’s lazy. I want to have a real talk. Anyway, you should be grateful: Lee’s secrecy made it a lot easier for you to build me up in your head.”

She’s not normal. That’s what she told Lee like a terrible warning. A prophecy that had already come true.

Fuck normal. I think I like powerful better.

“You’re not a little girl anymore.”

“No. But you’re still you. And I’m still me.”

“I don’t think you have any clue what you are, Natalie.”

“Everyone keeps getting my name wrong today. You should’ve seen what happened to the last guy who kept doing it.” I smile, knowing my teeth are as bloody as my face.

She pales. She really is scared of me. It’s fascinating. I’ve spent so much of life surrounded by dangerous people who dismissed me until my knife was on their skin. But this woman fears me to her core. I’m some psychotic bogey-girl, the grim reaper of her relationship, my scythe at the ready to fall on her neck next.

“You need me to get all of you out of here safely. That little girl—you care about her well-being, right? And your girlfriend. She certainly cares about you.”

“Iris did kidnap you because of me,” I say. “That’s way better than the locket I got her for prom.” I can see North tense. She’s getting ready to move. Has she worked her ropes loose enough to try? Is she in last-resort mode just by being in my presence?

Amazing. I’ve never been this powerful before.

I play it oblivious. Like she’ll be able to get the drop on me. I keep rambling. “Iris might disagree with me on the present thing, though,” I continue, as her feet flatten in the fallen, decaying leaves, ready to push up. “She really likes the locket I got her. I hit it out of the park with that gift.” Her hips shift. I tilt Jill to catch the light seeping through the leaves before she can try to leap up. “I will cut you if you try something, North. I can do it with one arm, easy.”

She freezes.

“It’ll be hard not to hurt you if you try stupid shit.”

“You are the one doing stupid shit, Nora.”

“First of all, thank you for actually using my name. Secondly, I am not an FBI agent who went rogue to chase down an old informant—that’d be me—and hired mercenaries to do that—that would be those two guys Wes and Iris saw who are now injured and angry … plus the one that Raymond’s men shot dead in the woods.”

“That girl and that boy … they’re fucking crazy. Just like you.”

“But we’re not the ones bringing hired guns into the forest to chase after girls. You and Raymond did that. I was trying to have a nice backpacking trip with my friends and get my girlfriend to her internship. Which you have all ruined now, thank you very much. She was really looking forward to it, and there’s no way a locket will make up for it this time.”

“Shut up. My God. Your incessant yapping. All of you. It’s exhausting.”

“Iris said you were cranky. I’m starting to see it. Are you hangry? Do you need a granola bar? I only have one left.”

“Shut up! Focus, you horrible little bitch,” she snaps, and my mouth drops open at the outburst. I didn’t think it’d be this easy to push her into pure anger, but Iris must’ve really gotten to her.

“It is only a matter of time before Raymond Keane finds us,” she says. “So untie me and let me get my radio, and I will have a chopper here within an hour.”

“And how will you explain the whole going-rogue thing to your FBI buddies?”

“Do as I say if you want to live.”

“That is very Terminator of you, North.”

“Raymond will catch up with you—”

“No, he won’t,” I say. “He’s dead.”

Terror sparks in her eyes, so strong that my hand tenses on Jill, because that kind of terror means fight or flight. North is definitely not one to fawn.

But she doesn’t move. She stares at me, realization and that typical jumping to conclusions thing she does rushing through her so hard it’s like they’re carved on her face. “You … What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything, actually,” I say. “But I know you won’t believe me. So I’m not going to get into it. He’s dead.”

“He came into the woods with a team of four,” North says. “Where are they?”

“Two are dead in a tent about five miles north of here. One got shot about five minutes east of the meadow. And the final one was killed by your mercs.”

She looks at me. “You murderous—”

“Raymond killed his men,” I say.

North snorts.

“I know, I know. You don’t believe me,” I say. “But I didn’t kill anyone. I just got Emma out of the fire tower, and I tried to get my friends out of these woods. The truth is you are more at fault here than me. You could’ve stopped all of this. You knew he’d come for me. You moved to NorCal so you could lie in wait like the vulture you are. You knew he’d do anything to get me. Even risk prison again.”

“I did,” she says. “And I was right.”

I get up, I get right in her face, inches away.

“I am not your bait.”

She flinches as spit hits her face. As my anger flies out, a force greater than any blow.

“That’s why she doesn’t love you,” I say. “My sister sees something wrong and goes out to fix it at any cost. She’d never look at a girl trapped in a man’s web and think How can I use her? But you did.”

Her chin tilts up. Her eyes slide to meet mine. Defiant and burning. “I have no regrets.”

“I guess we have that in common.”

The silence simmers between us. There’s nothing else to say when it comes to me and her and our fucked-up history.

I have to focus on the future. On making sure Iris and Wes have one after their detour into kidnapping.

“So what’s your story going to be, North?” I ask.

Her mouth opens and then closes, her lips twisting. “No,” she says. “I’m not playing this game with you.”

“We know you can’t tell the truth,” I say. My voice drops, down to a lull. Normally I would fix my eyes on hers, but it makes her nervous—I make her too nervous. Smoothing her emotions into a choice won’t work. Twisting them won’t work, either.

She needs to be pulled. Yanked through her doubts by something more powerful: her ego.

“Emma and Amanda put a wrench in your plans. I know it. You didn’t have notes on them like you had notes on Iris and Wes.”

“They weren’t supposed to be here,” North says calmly.

“So you’re gonna have to come up with something,” I say. “Because I’ll be gone, North. You won’t find us. But you’ve got a real opportunity here to turn it all around.”

“And I’m sure you’re about to tell me how to do that,” she says.

“Of course,” I say. “I handed you Raymond on a silver platter last time. And now I’ve done it again, with bonus kidnapping victims and a dead Raymond, so he can’t contradict the story or file an appeal this time. You get all the glory and the kill. If you’re smart.”

“So I should say that he took the Michaels sisters.”

“Their dad is a plastic surgeon. Maybe Raymond took them because he was gonna blackmail the guy into giving him a new face. You Feds were putting together a new case against him, after all. Maybe he decided he wanted to run instead of risk getting put back in prison.”

“That’s incredibly far-fetched. This is not an episode of Law and Order.”

“Okay, then you spin something. Pay off the mercs so they don’t talk. They should be embarrassed that a bunch of teenagers got the better of them anyway. You’re the one who’s head of the Sacramento office. I’m sure they’ll believe any story you give them and look the other way that the mission started off-book. What did you tell them? That you were up here on vacation?”

“A fishing trip,” she admits reluctantly, like I’ve pulled it out of her with pliers.

It thrills me. Because it means that she’s thawing. She’s considering it.

She may think of me as bait, but she’s just taken mine.

“Maybe you clocked one of Raymond’s men at the general store,” I say. “Remembered him from the Florida case. You didn’t have any cell service. Had to think quickly. On your toes. It was follow him or lose him. Only you and your sidearm and your gut instinct in thousands of acres of forest as you hunt down two kidnapped girls and a crime lord. They’ll call you a badass. You’ll get book offers this time around, North. Go with the right PR firm and you can buy yourself onto the bestseller lists. Maybe they’ll make a movie.”

I shrug, getting to my feet. “It’s up to you,” I say, as I tighten the rope knots with my good hand and she glares. “You can be lauded as a hero and go on the morning-show circuit and be a memoirist or whatever they call it and ride off into the sunset rich and, well, maybe not exactly happy but as close to it as someone like you can get. Or you can tell the truth. That you stalked your former confidential informant and didn’t call for official backup when a threat presented itself. Instead, you brought in mercs for hire and nearly got a six-year-old girl killed.” I purse my lips and tilt my head. “Which ‘truth’ do you think would go down better? Because I know which one I would choose. Especially when there’s no sign of me anywhere.”

“Don’t you dare—” she says, struggling against the rope.

“Last look.” I do a lopsided spin to annoy her, and it works because her mouth twists again.

“Nat—” she starts, and then corrects herself. “Nora. Don’t do this.”

I shake my head, walking backward. A few more steps and I’ll be fading into the trees.

“Sorry, North. This is where I disappear.”

“Natalie!”

But Natalie was gone a long time ago.

And soon Nora will be, too.

Day Seven. Evening.

The Mine Shaft

What I’m working with: a quarter of the food bag, my sling pack, 1 rifle, 1 gun, Jill the machete, Raymond’s pack

“I need to talk to you,” I tell Amanda.

Emma smiles when she sees me. “Amanda says you made the bad man go home. High five!”

I tap my hand against hers, feeling kind of hysterical at the idea that I’m high-fiving over Raymond’s death.

“Mr. Butt-Face will not be bothering us anymore,” I tell her.

“I bet he was mad you made him go home.”

“You could say that,” I say as Amanda glares at me like Emma actually understands what happened.

“Do you want this back?” Emma asks, grasping the knife necklace I made her.

“Why don’t you keep it to remember me.”

Emma frowns. “Where are you going?”

“Honey, why don’t you go see if Turbo wants the rest of your granola bar,” Amanda says quickly. Emma trots off obediently, heading toward Wes and Turbo. Amanda’s gaze skitters from me to Wes as we walk out of earshot, and I feel a guilty pang when he won’t meet her eyes.

I’ve fucked that up royally, but I have a feeling Amanda will be the one to suffer the permanent repercussions.

“Have you two talked?”

“Don’t you dare,” she says, which answers my question.

We have to leave. Soon. Time’s running out.

Will he walk away from her and never talk to her again? Or—the swift realization of the alternative hits me so hard I can’t breathe—is he not coming with us?

He has to. He can’t stay here. He can’t.

“Are you … What do you want to talk about?” Amanda asks, frowning at me.

“So here’s how it’s gonna go,” I tell her. “Me and Iris and Wes, we’ll go north and take the access road out.”

Her mouth drops, outraged. “You’re leaving us here?!”

“You’ll go with Agent North.”

“I don’t think—”

“Amanda, you can’t come with us,” I say. “We’re not going back to Clear Creek for a while. Maybe forever.”

She swallows. A hard click of reality. She looks over her shoulder again to Wes. I want to say sorry, but I can’t. It won’t mean anything.

There’s only one last thing I can give her.

“You wait to let North go, okay? Wait until the morning. No matter what she says. You wait. And you don’t tell her what direction we went in.”

Amanda doesn’t agree. She crosses her arms and waits for me to continue.

“She’ll take you back to the cabin. She’ll call for help. You’ll get helicoptered out of here, all fancy while we’re hauling ass toward the highway.”

“And then what?” Amanda demands.

“North will have to spin a story,” I say. “Probably the one I gave her, because she has no guile or imagination. Go with it. She’ll paint herself as the hero and Raymond as the vengeful kidnapper. Agree with her. Go along with everything she says. It’ll keep you safe.”

“Are you sure?”

“She’s a tool, but she won’t kill you or anything. ‘Saving’ you and Emma is her ticket to a brand-new life, and she knows it. She needs you both. She’ll get you home safe. Your parents will praise her name for the rest of eternity, which will be annoying, but it’s better than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Wes and Iris in prison for kidnapping a federal agent. And whatever you feel about me, I know you don’t want that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“So go along with North’s story. She’ll make sure that no one questions Emma. And if she says a different story in therapy or to your parents, no one’s gonna think anything of it because she’s so young.”

“She’s smart,” Amanda protests.

“She is,” I agree. “You’re lucky to have her as a sister.”

“I am,” she says. “And speaking of … I need to get back to her.”

“Hey, one last thing,” I say.

“What?”

“There’s a locker at the Dunsmuir bus station. Number 34. Combination 15-62-15.”

“Why would I—”

“Inside are step-by-step instructions on how to get to Abby at Lowell Correctional.”

She shakes her head, her voice coming out high pitched, like back in the tent. “You’re not serious.”

“When have I ever joked with you?”

“Is that what you think I want? To see her? To what, confront her?”

“Actually, I was thinking you might want to kill her.”

Amanda goes pale under her tan, and then, suddenly, almost as swiftly, red floods into her cheeks. And I see it in her eyes: the hunger. I recognize it.

“You—you—” She steps away from me, shaking her head. “You are fucking crazy.” She crosses her arms, hugging herself close.

Holding it in: the desire.

I stay steady in the storm. The oak among the pines. It’s all I know how to do. It has to happen. It’ll have to be her or me, won’t it? It’s the way to finally end the cycle.

“It’s up to you,” I say. “Look inside the locker or don’t. That’s the whole point.”

She steps back from me again, like I’m rancid.

“Is this some sort of sick test?”

“No,” I say. “It’s a choice.”

I’m trying to level the tilted ground between us. I’m trying to make it right. I am not above revenge—my own or someone else’s. We all know Abby deserves it and more.

I never had an actual mother because of Abby, and Amanda lost hers because of Abby. Once again, she and I find ourselves as strange, motherless bedfellows. She is the ivy to my tree. A choking, tangled presence that grew stronger and more invasive with each year. I just never saw her until it was too late.

I have to admire that kind of game. I have to respect it. Respect her.

That’s why I have to give her a choice.

I’ve made mine.

She should be able to make hers.

Who does she want to be?

Day Seven. Night.

It’s almost midnight when I make the call at the bottom of the fire tower.

Lee picks up on the second ring, even though she doesn’t know the number.

“Hello?”

I hate that I’ve made her sound like that.

“It’s me.”

“Oh my God, you—”

“Black olive. Plan 13. Access Road 237.”

She falls silent, absorbing the information.

And then she says the four best words I’ve ever heard:

“I’m on my way.”

Dawn

We walk all night to get to the road, Turbo taking the lead, the only one of us that doesn’t seem exhausted. Luckily, there’s a trail this time, leading to the road. It’s actually maintained. Almost a piece of cake after everything.

Iris and Wes take turns helping me, passing my wounded ass back and forth so I’m never without support.

We don’t talk. We’re too focused on moving. Surviving. Just a little longer.

When my feet hit pavement, I don’t notice at first. It feels strange after so many days of dirt until I look down and see.

We made it. I stagger to a stop, looking down the shadowy road, slowly getting lighter as the sky does.

I survived him.

Every time I blink, I see him in that pit.

You did it. You killed me.

He’ll do his best to haunt me. And I won’t have Margaret to help.

It’s just me now.

But when I look ahead of me, I see them and I see Lee’s car beyond them, heading toward us, and I know I’m wrong.

It’s not just me.

It’s us.

Dawn

What I’m working with: my sister, my best friend, the love of my life, my canine savior, Plan 13

“I should’ve injected you with a tracking chip when you were in middle school,” is what Lee says when I open the car door. Her shining eyes sweep up and down, her face changing the second she realizes: “You’re hurt.” She unbuckles her seat belt, rearing toward me.

“I’m fine,” I say, but Wes says, “No, she’s not.” and Iris layers over: “You’ve been shot, you are not fine!” so Lee gets a jumble instead of an actual answer as I collapse into the passenger seat. Oh my God, it feels so good to sit down. My shoulder moved from throbbing to searing about three hours into our hike to the road and hasn’t stopped.

“Hospital?” Lee asks urgently.

I shake my head. “You grab the duffels?”

“They’re in the back.”

“Then we need to run.”

“From who?”

I’m in too much pain to stop the misery from flooding my face and voice.

“Everyone.”

Arizona
The third day free

Lee follows the map I left in my duffel bag without question. Which is good, because I fall asleep around the Nevada border. When I finally wake, we’re in the middle of the desert in Arizona and it’s been two days. I’m in a big bed, in the rental I had to get three different fake IDs to secure.

I touch my arm gingerly. Iris’s makeshift bandage is gone, replaced with neat patches of gauze and tape that are so symmetrical I know Lee found some crooked doctor to fix me.

I get up one-armed and slowly—my entire body shakes with the effort—and cross the room even slower, but when I push open the door leading to the deck, moonlight spills in.

Lee’s out of her chair and rushing to help me into it the second she sees me.

“I’m okay,” I mumble, but there’s no more adrenaline to mask anything. I feel like I’ve been tossed around and munched on by several hippos. And not the cute ones that Iris likes to watch on social media.

“How’s your pain?” Lee asks. “You’re due for more pills in about an hour, but I can give them to you early.”

I shake my head. “Where’s Iris and Wes?”

“Asleep. It’s late.” She takes the chair next to me, not dropping my hand. I look down at it, at the way she kind of convulsively squeezes it every three seconds like she needs to reassure herself I’m here.

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” she says, which is mean if you ask me. “You scared the shit out of me. You put everyone at risk—”

“Raymond put everyone at risk. I was just reacting.”

Lee’s silent for so long, I’m afraid she’ll explode. But then, all she says is, “I didn’t want this for you. I didn’t want you to have to—”

She can’t say it. She would’ve chosen to stay hidden over fighting. That’s the difference between us, I guess.

It was always him or me. Him or my life, my loves, my family. Him or the innocents trapped on the tilted ground with me.

I might have nightmares about him forever, but I’ll have no regrets.

“Has there been … is it in the news yet?” Will North take my bait and the path I unwound for her? Or will she be a stubborn asshole? There’s always that risk with her, unfortunately.

Lee shakes her head.

“And Iris and Wes … they told you about Agent North?”

“Oh yes, they told me.”

“I’m really sorry,” I try again.

She leans her head against the Adirondack chair. “It is what it is.”

I stare at her incredulously. “Why aren’t you mad?”

She still hasn’t let go of my hand this whole time.

“Nora, I’m fucking furious,” Lee says. “But you’re here. You’re here and you got Wes and Iris out and you saved Amanda and her sister and we will be having many talks about your batshit behavior later on, but right now …”

She falls silent again.

“I didn’t want this for you,” she says again. “I didn’t want you to bear this.”

I turn to her. My sister. My heartbeat. The answer to the questions: what is good? What is right? I wait until she feels my eyes on her and meets mine, so she knows there’s no lie in me.

“I can bear a lot of things,” I tell her. “You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because in the end, the marks … the girls … Abby … Raymond … none of them were the making of me. You were.”

Arizona
The eighth day free

“I hate waiting like this,” Iris whispers.

We’re lying in bed, legs tangled in the night-hush of the house. She normally likes to sleep on the right side, but we’ve had to switch because of my shoulder.

“Lee says if it’s gonna happen, it’ll be a press conference. And Amanda’s mom posted that thing on socials thanking everyone for their love and messages for her girls. That means they got home and people are talking. A story’s being told.”

“What if North decides to tell the truth—”

“She’ll look like the biggest idiot in the world. A bunch of teenagers got the better of her, and now she has to have the FBI hunt them down? She’ll never admit it. It’s gonna be okay,” I say, even though I’m not sure. It’s a choice: the easy street or the worst kind of infamy. I want North to be smart enough to choose right. But you never know with her.

“And what if it’s not? What if we have to stay here? What if we have to run? What if—what if I never see my mom again?”

I slip my good arm around her waist, gathering her closer to me. Her head tucks into the hollow of my throat—wet presses into my skin. Tears she’s trying not to shed.

“You’re not gonna lose your mom,” I say. “And you’ll get your excision surgery like you planned. I’ll fix it, even if North screws it up.”

“You can’t promise that,” Iris whispers.

I kiss the top of her head and leave my mouth there, breathing in her shampoo.

“But I can believe it.”

Her hand slides along my neck, to cup the back of my head. “We should’ve left North for the bears.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?”

I shake my head. “We have to be better than that.”

“I want us safe more than I want to be better,” Iris says.

I can’t blame her. But, it turns out, she won’t have to wait much longer.

The next morning, North holds a press conference.

A week after that, North’s on some national morning show. The hero FBI agent, singlehandedly saving two kidnapped sisters. And yes, there is talk of a book in the works.

I really know how to call it, sometimes.

Arizona
The nineteenth day free

My body gets better. Slowly.

My heart is cracked down the middle. Wes can barely look at me, no matter how much space I give him.

And my mind … it’s a fucking mess.

You did it. You killed me.

I don’t get out of bed some days. I lie there flipping the thumb drive between my fingers, staring up at it, wondering.

I think about calling Abby. Has she realized the FBI’s lies? She must know, deep down, the only person who could kill him was me.

Do I want to confront her? Taunt her? Do I want confirmation losing him hurts more than losing us?

Or do I just want to kill her like I promised to when I was twelve?

I always keep my promises. And I’ve got no clue if Amanda’s got the nerve. I know she’s got the desire. That bedfellow thing, again.

If I did something with his blackmail file instead of burying it, it’d all come down on Abby now. It’d be the end of her. I know that. I have to decide if I care.

“Hey.”

Lee stands in the doorway, watching me fiddle with the thumb drive.

There are so many misdeeds in such a small object. So many bad men to destroy.

I could bring that destruction. We could. Me and Lee.

“What are you up to?” she asks.

“I’m deciding,” I say.

“Deciding what?”

I pinch the drive between my fingers, tilting it back and forth.

“My future.”

Thirty days out of the woods

Lowell Correctional Facility

I open the locker a week after I get home. I would’ve gone sooner, but there were days of questioning from the FBI and then my parents weren’t letting me out of their sight for a while there.

But I wait a whole month before I go. It sounds easy, but it isn’t.

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve lived with my jaw wired shut for six months and spent two years smiling as my worst enemy sat unknowingly across the classroom. I am nothing if not patient.

A part of me waits because I think they’re coming back. But the days tick by and there’s no word, there’s no sign of them, and I drive past Iris’s house a few times, expecting … I don’t know what. Cop cars or something? A missing person report on the news? I see her mother outside, getting into the car one day, and she doesn’t look bothered or distraught, and it circles in my head: what has Nora done? What is she capable of, that she can disappear herself and three other people and there’s not a ripple?

It lurks in the back of my head: nothing is easy when it comes to Nora.

But I told myself this would be. This would be the culmination of everything I’d hoped for.

Revenge. Justice. Closure.

I’d tie it up in a neat bow, and it would be done.

I’d finally be free of the blond ghosts who chased me for years.

So how could it not be an easy choice?

It was freedom.

But now I’m here. Now I’m wondering.

Is it a con? When I opened up the box and found what Nora left me, I wondered. Had she really made this for herself? Or did she make it for me? Was I another one of her plots?

Everything was there. Who to bribe. How to pay them off. And the money to do it. So much money. I don’t want to know where she got it.

Is she using me? Do I care anymore? Does she know what I’m going to do? How can she, when I still don’t?

But maybe she does.

Maybe Nora will always know me better. Maybe she will always out-think me. You live that many lives and you don’t splinter, you become something more. Something strange and powerful and beyond how normal people think.

I wouldn’t wish that mind on anyone.

I hear the alarm in the hall. She’s coming. I can’t back out now. I rub my sweaty palms against my jeans. I fiddle with the collar of my shirt, suddenly feeling silly for wearing pink. I never wear pink. But my mom had loved pink. I think I wore it for her.

How sad is that?

I stand up when I see her through the glass, and I hate myself instantly for doing that, like she deserves some sort of deference or nervousness.

She doesn’t deserve anything.

The guard leads her into the private visitation room. She’s in chains. My eyes fix on them. I hadn’t realized she’d be in chains.

He threads the chains through a ring on the table, and then he nods to me and leaves the room.

My heart’s gonna beat right out of my chest. I swallow, my throat clicking dryly. I wish I had some water.

I sit down and meet her eyes for the first time. I fold my hands together in front of me, because if I don’t, they might curl into fists. They might reach out and try to strangle her, like they don’t belong to me. Like they belong to her daughter. Am I the weapon? Did Nora turn me into one? Or did it sprout inside me that day I found my mom in bed and tried to shake her awake when I knew deep down she wasn’t getting up?

“Who are you?” Abby asks.

She’s older than the monster of my dreams. Feather-soft lines and grooves around her mouth, but she remains incredibly beautiful.

“I know your daughter,” I say. I am so proud of myself; my voice doesn’t tremble at all.

“My daughter … You must be her little girlfriend,” Abby says, leaning back in her chair. “Lily or something.” She smirks, so self-assured.

I shake my head. “No. You’ll never get near the girlfriend.”

Nora wouldn’t allow it. She’ll keep Iris and Wes safe and untouched by Abby’s evil, and I respect that. I’m glad for it.

If only I could be so lucky.

“Then who are …” She trails off, unsettled, searching my face.

My mother’s eyes stare back at her, but she can’t see it. Maybe she doesn’t remember. They must all blur together for her. I told myself it was the same for Nora, but I think I was wrong.

I’m not wrong about Abby.

“Do you still knit?” I ask her. “I suppose not. Sharp objects aren’t allowed and all that.”

Her brow furrows—so beautifully, so delicately. I couldn’t see as a child why she held people in the palm of her hand, but I understand the world now. I understand her.

“How do you know my daughter?” she asks.

“Childhood friends. Thanks to you.”

And there it is: lighting up her blue eyes. Recognition.

Her body shifts. I’m expecting it, but it’s fascinating in a way. To see the change. From confusion to con woman in a split second.

Nora changed like that when she found out, too. There are some things we cannot shake from our mothers, I guess.

“You’re the Cartwright girl.” She smiles. “Huh.” Her eyes sweep me up and down, assessing almost like a catcaller would and it makes my skin flush with shame. “I guess your mother’s concerns about you being a tomboy were all for naught.”

I don’t take the bait. Nora and I already got into it in the woods. It stings that she was right. Another thing I couldn’t quite see as a kid, but I do now. Your mother … she’s not real to you, not a person to you … until she is. Until she gets hurt or screws up so bad the illusion’s shattered and the truth’s left: she’s not infallible. Sometimes mothers are good. Sometimes they’re bad. Sometimes they’re bigots and sometimes they’re addicts and sometimes they’re abusers, and all you can do is hope you’re strong enough to move through the world they try to make for you into one you make for yourself.

“Are you here to whine?” Abby asks. “Sob about how I ruined your life?”

“No,” I say. “I’m here to tell you that your daughter wants you dead.”

She smiles, the hard edge of it rough in her pretty face. “My daughter is prone to drama.”

“She sent me here to kill you.”

“You?” she laughs. “You’re going to kill me? Because I took some petty cash from your mom once? My daughter’s losing her touch, if the best she could find for her Monte Cristo vendetta is you.”

I figured that she didn’t know. That she never cared to Google her marks after. But it stings, even being prepared. That she can’t fathom a world where her hurt is real.

“She picked perfectly,” I say. “You didn’t just rob my mother. You killed her. You changed my whole life because of that ‘petty cash.’ And now …” I trail off like I’ve seen Nora do sometimes, and it works.

Abby leans forward. “I didn’t kill anyone. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just because you didn’t do it with your own hands doesn’t mean you weren’t responsible,” I tell her. “You killed my mother. And your daughter has given me the chance to make you pay.”

Abby cranes her head back, trying to look for the guard.

I get to my feet. My heart’s slow and strong now. Like it knows it doesn’t need to worry anymore. It’s almost done hurting. It’s so close to mending.

“Guard!” Abby calls.

No one comes.

“She thinks of everything, your daughter,” I tell her. “She made a whole spreadsheet I had to burn after I learned it. It was very geeky and very violent at the same time.”

Abby jerks against her chains. “This is ridiculous,” she says. “You can’t kill me in a prison. There are cameras. You’ll ruin your life.”

I hold up my hand in view of the camera and then close it into a fist.

The tiny green light switches off.

Blood drains out of Abby’s face.

I think of Nora. Of all the girls. Of all that hurt. Of all those choices.

My heart beats steady and true.

And I choose who I’m going to be.

Arizona

The thirty-first day free

“What are you looking at?” Iris asks.

I put the phone back into my pocket, not opening the text message I just got. “A game on my phone.”

“Lee said we should be ready to go early,” she says. “She wants to get on the road before it gets too hot.”

“It’s a long drive back to Clear Creek,” I say. “You ready to get back?”

“After lying to my mom for weeks? Yes.”

“At least the road-trip excuse worked,” I point out, grabbing my bag from the couch and carrying it into the foyer, where the rest of our luggage is.

“I don’t know what we would’ve done if we ran into my excision surgery date.”

“Well, now we don’t have to find out,” I say. “Agent North did exactly what I said she would.”

“She’s going to get a six-figure book deal, Nora,” Iris says. “She’s the definition of failing upward.”

“I know,” I say soothingly.

“I need to get Turbo’s food,” Iris says, scanning the bags in the hall. “Will you go get Wes?”

I make a face and she makes one right back at me. It’s much cuter than mine.

“You have to talk to him eventually,” she says.

“It’s not me that has a problem with talking,” I point out.

It’s not like he’s been totally ignoring me. He says things like Pass the tortillas, please and Did you eat the last of the yogurt? But that’s about it.

So I go out into the yard that’s all cactus—something that Turbo found out the hard way—and he’s right where he’s been for most days in Arizona. Sitting on the wooden bench that overlooks the desert.

I plop myself down next to him, because every time I’ve done a careful approach, it’s failed.

“Are you all packed for tomorrow?”

He nods.

“Okay,” I say, but I don’t move; I keep looking at him. “Are you gonna give me this silent treatment when we get back?”

“Don’t,” he says. “I told you, I need time.”

I turn so I’m facing him on the bench, crossing my legs under me. “How much time are we talking about?”

When the silence grows, so does my worry. I wish he’d yell at me. I wish we could fight and scream and solve this, but Wes doesn’t fight that way.

“Wes, if you hate me—”

“That’s the thing,” he says. “I can’t hate you.” He finally looks at me. “I’m incapable of hating you. That’s the problem. Because I should hate you, Nora. Not forever, but temporarily, I should really hate you.”

“But you don’t,” I say, with more than a modicum of relief, because this is the most he’s said to me in weeks.

“I can’t. And I need to figure out how to.”

“Wes—”

He shakes his head. There’s a finality to it that scares me.

“You and I, the longest we’ve spent apart since we were twelve is when we broke up. By my count, that’s about eight weeks out of over three hundred. I don’t know how to be without you.”

I don’t say anything, because I don’t think I’ll like where he’s going. It’s where Margaret’s gone a few times with me. She thinks we’re codependent. And like, okay, maybe we are, but there are reasons.

“Iris said something in the woods. That I belonged to you and Lee, more than I belonged to my parents. She was right.”

“Because you’re our family.”

“But I belong to you more than I belong to myself. And fuck, Nora, I have to belong to myself.”

Tears well up in my eyes, and I don’t have my shit together enough to stop them.

“I know,” I say finally.

“I didn’t belong to myself walking into those woods not knowing anything. Every single choice I could’ve made, I didn’t get a chance to. You made them for me. All three of you. Just because I understand why you did it … just because you all did it to protect me, doesn’t mean I can get over it easy.”

“Can you get over her?” I ask. “Amanda didn’t do anything—”

“I don’t blame Amanda for doing anything and everything to get her sister back. But she … How did Iris put it? Infiltrated our friend group via romantic relationship?”

“Okay, yes, she did kind of do that. But I don’t think she actually did that, Wes.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“I don’t think that she did it on purpose. I think, in fact, that she had to really like you—really love you—in order to put up with the fact that I was constantly around. I think she loves you, and I think you love her. And I think that she would’ve taken the whole ‘Amanda got conned by baby me’ thing to her grave if Emma hadn’t gotten kidnapped.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t know a lot of things,” I say. “I don’t like her very much, yet here I am. Arguing for her. If you go back home and ignore her—”

“I’m not going back home,” he says.

“What?” My voice drops, guttural in my throat, along with my heart in my chest.

“I am, I mean. But only for a week or two. To get some stuff and see my mom. But then I’m going.”

“Where?”

“Scotland. Terry has some cousins over there. He’s gonna come with me. We’ll do some more backpacking. There’s lots of cool stuff to see over there.”

I can’t protest in the aftermath of what he’s laid out. I have to belong to myself. How can I deny that? Deny him? I can only accept such a deep truth.

It hurts, growing up.

“Will you come back?” My voice shakes with how much I fear the answer, and when it doesn’t come, it’s like a death blow. “Will you ever forgive me, Wes?”

He leans over then and kisses me on the forehead like he did in the woods. His arm stays around my neck, keeping me close. I can feel his lips tremble against my skin.

“Yes to both,” he says. “But not right now.”

We stay like that for a long time. So long that Iris comes out to check on us. She sits on the other side of him, we put him in the middle for once, like we can protect him, like we can reach him.

But I think he’s already gone.

I just have to believe that it’s for now instead of forever.

The next morning, we pile into the car as it’s getting light out. Turbo’s the only one really awake. Lee goes back into the house to lock up as we get settled.

“I can’t wait to get home,” Iris says. “How long is the drive?” She reaches over to fiddle with the GPS from the back seat.

“Ten hours,” Wes says. “We are not listening to historical romance novels the entire way.”

“I know you were into the last one I played for you,” she says.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like them. But not the entire way home, please.”

“Your desire to drive in silence is unnerving,” Iris shoots back as Turbo lays her head in Wes’s lap.

“Do you have extra water for her?” I ask. “I can go get some.”

“I’ve got it,” he says quickly.

“He’s still mad you turned his dog into an assassin and now she likes you more,” Iris says.

“She does not like me more,” I protest, because I can’t really argue with the first thing. “She does not,” I insist, when Wes and Iris both look at me, and then Turbo, sensing my attention, pulls away from Wes and tries to climb over Iris to lick my face.

Wes snorts. “Traitor,” he says, kissing one of her ears.

“You two are going to run this joke into the ground, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Wes adds.

Lee heads toward us, pulling the driveway gate closed and starting to lock it. I watch her in the rear-view, thinking about the agreement we’d made.

No college, thank goodness. But if I want to take on Raymond’s blackmail file, I have to follow her lead. She’s already started calling up old contacts in LA. I don’t tell her, but I can see it already: a life and PI firm down there. The bad men, being knocked down one by one by my mother’s daughters.

My future, born from the past.

“So,” Iris says, squaring her shoulders. “What’s next?”

“Life, I guess,” I say.

“I was actually looking for more like breakfast ideas,” Iris says, and Wes starts laughing so hard that Turbo gives up using his knee as a pillow and settles her head on the middle console instead.

“Sorry, I thought you wanted me to get all deep.”

Iris reaches out and fluffs up my bangs before reaching down and threading my fingers through hers. “It’s been a summer,” she says simply.

“It’s not even August,” Wes says.

“It’s been a summer,” she repeats sternly.

“Okay,” he says. “It’s been a summer.”

“What are you three giggling about?” Lee asks, opening the driver’s side and getting in.

“We were talking about breakfast,” Iris says. “Something fast, I think? So we can get home sooner.”

“Agreed.” Lee turns the key in the ignition.

“You know what I could go for?” I ask them.

“What?” Lee starts to pull out of the driveway.

“I’d love some donuts.”

“That sounds so good,” Iris says.

“I’d kill for a cinnamon roll,” Wes says.

“Ooh, and the cake ones with too many sprinkles?”

“Give me a maple bar and I’m set.”

I let their voices—and donut choices—wash over me as we drive away.

The house becomes a speck in the rear-view. The memories won’t. They’ll haunt me. The choices that brought me here and the ones that allowed me to leave.

Someday, maybe, his voice in my head will fade.

You did it. You killed me.

But for now, when I hear him, I’ll think:

Him or me.

No doubt. No regret.

Freedom’s just another thing to lose.

So I hold on tight.

1. Abigail Deveraux (she had it coming)

Because I wrote a longer book than usual, I have a shorter space for my acknowledgments this time around. Know that the length of this does not match the depth of my feeling for those who helped me close out Nora’s journey.

Huge thanks to Nazima Abdillahi and Lisa Yoskowitz, my editors in the UK and the US. I am so grateful for your care throughout the writing and publishing process.

An author is nothing without the many people working on her books. So many thanks to the teams in the UK and US who tirelessly worked on this novel with me. In the UK: Laura Pritchard, cover designer Joana Reis, publicist Bec Gillies, copy editors Hazel Cotton and Joanna Edwards, proofer Anna Bowles, production controller Joelyn Esdelle, and the entire marketing team behind Nora.

Jim, you are the reason Nora exists, because I remember the call where I sat under my big oak and you nudged me back into YA after a long time away, and this was the result. I think we can say now it was a nudge in the right direction.

Thank you to the rest of my team: Lauren Abramo for all her help, and the team at Abner Stein, and the team at Dystel, Goderich & Bourret. Thank you to Steve Fisher, who has been so kind to me as I explore screenwriting, and Christine Cuddy, who has taught me so much about contracts.

Enormous thanks to Dr. K, the staff at the CRRS, and the nursing and surgical staff at Northside Hospital for taking such good care of me last summer. And thanks to Nancy’s Nook, a resource that educated me about the difference between ablation and excision in endometriosis surgery.

My friends at the Trifecta: a gal could not ask for a better writing group, and I would not have gotten through 2023 without all of you. Thank you for all the jokes, support, and Godzilla gifs.

K, who carried me through some parts of 2023 as I recovered and wrote: thank you for taking such good care of the pets and me. I love you. Also, I’m sorry I came home with three surprise kittens, but in my defense they are very cute.

The screenwriters and labor organizers of the Writers Guild of America who fought for the health insurance that gave me the operations that freed me from a lifetime of chronic pain: thank you is much too small, but it’s what I’ve got room for.

And finally, to my readers across the world: this book exists because you liked the first one so much, talked about it so much, and bought it so much. It is the greatest privilege of my life to write books for you, to have some of you grow up with my YA work and to have others discover it in adulthood and remember what it’s like to love, live and fight through one’s youth. Thank you.