Another owl hooted. An answering hoot came quickly, then another.

The air was soft against their faces, soft and cold. Joanna shivered. She pressed against Ethan’s back. He whispered, “They must have stolen the sleeping bags, if it’s them. We’ll have to shine a light. I’ll take the sleeping bag closest to the fire, all right? You take the other. Remember, don’t hesitate. If ever our lives will be on the line, it’s now.” He stared down at her for a long moment. He knew she couldn’t see him clearly, but he could see her. He touched his palm to her cheek. She looked scared, and determined. It would be enough. “Let’s do this and get back to Autumn.”

She nodded, her throat suddenly dry as desert sand. She’d never really understood wanting to kill another person, but she understood now. She felt a wild need to kill Blessed, watch the life flow out of his mad eyes. Then at last Autumn would be safe. And Ethan, a man she’d known only for a week or so. That was amazing.

She stared at the unmoving sleeping bag not ten feet away from her. She thought she saw the shape of a head, but she couldn’t make out who it was. It didn’t matter.

They approached silently, their weapons raised, Ethan breaking away from her toward the closer sleeping bag.

Ethan felt something flutter behind him and froze. He knew without looking. He whipped the Remington up and whirled around, his eyes down, and fired.

He heard a little girl’s scream of pain. He jerked his head up and looked at Autumn, standing not six feet from him at the edge of the trees, and she was bleeding, a gaping tear in her small chest, a river of blood flowing from her small body.

Joanna screamed her daughter’s name but swung her gun around and fired down at the sleeping bag, again and again until the clip was empty. There was no sound, no movement. Autumn—oh, God, no, no.

“Ethan. Mama. Why did you shoot me?”

She was dead. Joanna had seen the huge bloody hole through her chest.

She was hearing her dead child’s voice.

50

“ETHAN, MAMA, that’s not me. I’m over here.”

Ethan watched as the little girl he’d shot fell slowly to the ground onto her back, watched that little girl change—a second, that’s all it took—like a shift in the air had lifted a veil, and Grace became himself. Ethan shook his head, not wanting to believe what his eyes had witnessed. It was madness, but it was nonetheless true. His life had flown out of control since these two had come into it. Grace lay on the ground, his hands pressing frantically down on his gut, blood and fluid seeping through his fingers, and he was hissing with pain.

Ethan yelled to Joanna, “Where is Blessed?”

“I shot him in his sleeping bag,” Joanna said as she ran toward Autumn. “Finally he’s dead, thank God, he’s dead. I emptied my clip into him.”

“No, you didn’t, Joanna.”

She whirled around, stared him right in the face.

“No!” Autumn screamed, and launched herself at Blessed. He turned to grab her small arm. He looked at Ethan as he jerked up the Remington. “You don’t want to do that, Sheriff.”

Ethan froze.

“Autumn, my little niece, my little sweetheart, it’s all right now—no, it’s not, I can’t lie to you. He shot Grace, that sheriff shot your uncle, Autumn. Look at him, it’s bad.”

Blessed dragged Autumn to where his brother lay curled up on his side, his palms flat against his belly, his blood now gushing through his fingers, whimpering with pain. Gut shot, the sheriff had gut-shot Grace. Blessed knew if he didn’t get him to the hospital fast, Grace would die. His guts would twist up, and they’d turn green and black, and Grace would rot. He would die screaming. Martin was dead, and now Grace. He’d always protected both of them, always paid back, with bloody interest, anyone who bullied them because they were different, because they were special. But the bullies beat his brothers up only once, because Blessed nearly killed them. And now Grace was shot, shot bad, in his belly. Blessed had failed him. He wanted to howl, to shriek, but not pray, never pray, because Mama had told him prayers from him could bring up the devil and then things would really get bad.

He stood there staring down at his brother, his brain squirreling about madly. He knew little Autumn was terrified, he couldn’t blame her for that, but Grace was lying on the cold ground, weeping and screaming. What was he to do?

Grace’s eyes fastened on his brother, tears running in dirty rivulets down his thin cheeks. “Blessed,” Grace whispered. “Listen to me, Blessed. Kill me, kill me. There’s no choice. Oh, Jesus, I can’t stand it.”