He drew his pistol.
Pointed it forward.
Then stopped.
He couldn’t arrive with a drawn weapon. If the others were armed, they might panic and shoot. And frankly, he was so riled up, he might empty his own clip toward anything that moved.
Holstering the weapon, he continued onward.
Ahead, light bled through gaps between the branches. Getting close. Careful not to expose himself, he shifted for a peek into the clearing. He expected to find three rifles pointed in his direction but saw none. Saw nothing at all. Just the empty clearing and the ring of pines surrounding it.
Trembling, he called out, announcing his presence. When nobody responded, he entered the clearing. His foot landed funny in the snow. He looked down and spotted footprints, scattered like dance steps.
“Hello?” Karl yelled. “Who’s there?”
He tried to understand where the footprints led. The thicket ahead seemed a likely destination, but the prints didn’t extend past the middle of the clearing. Nor did they head south, away from the creek. Which meant…
Karl spun around and faced the entry thicket. He readied his gun, swiping left to right, watching for movement. Wind shook the trees. If Candace’s people were concealed, Ashlee and the others might be at gunpoint.
“Ashlee!”
“What, Dad?” She sounded calm.
“Nothing.” He settled. “Watch yourself.”
“Anybody in there?”
“Just me, darling.” But somebody had to be waiting. Had to be near. Footprints didn’t lie, and there was no set of returning prints on the trail. If they weren’t in the clearing, they had to be hiding in the thicket. The only other hiding spot was the creek. But nobody could hide there. Not unless—
He hurried toward the bend. Pale sunlight glimmered on the water. Splashes sounded.
When he reached the creek bank, Karl gasped.
He couldn’t believe it. Below the surface lay Elaine Richards from the Downhill Diner, along with two other Traders. All three were motionless beneath the water, their eyes open, staring upward. Staring at a world they no longer belonged to.
Karl dropped to his knees in disbelief. “No… No!”
Ashlee burst through the thicket. “Dad!”
“Stay back!”
The creek splashed again. He jumped back as he watched three circular openings form along the surface, right above the bodies’ heads. He heard three separate gasps. They were breathing.
They were alive.
53
Trent parked his Subaru beside the Werner house and cleared his throat. Rosita leaned against the passenger window with all the energy of a grocery bag. No anger, no hostility, nothing. He’d have felt better if she resisted—attacked him, even. At least if she tried mauling him, he could tell himself she was a psycho who deserved to go blind.
But of course she didn’t deserve that.
Now that they’d arrived, he didn’t know what to say. An apology wouldn’t mean shit. Nor would an explanation. He said the only thing that made sense.
“You’re home.”
He hobbled out and opened the door for her. After some urging, she left the car. Trent guided her up the snowy sidewalk. It reminded him of guiding Jake and left a funny feeling in his stomach.
Using her keys, he opened the front door. They entered. It was cold, dark, and silent inside. The air smelled faintly of roasted turkey. When he handed her the keys, she dropped them. They rattled to the floor. She didn’t seem to care. He texted Bill Werner on her phone and set it on a nearby ottoman.
“Your husband knows you’re home.”
Rosita didn’t reply. She hiccupped.
“Rosita? You wanna sit down?”
She shook her head.
“Okay then. I’m heading out.”
“Kitchen.”
“Kitchen? All right.”
Taking her elbow, he escorted her.
In the kitchen she stretched her hand out, feeling in front of her. She slapped the counter and guided herself toward the fridge. When her fingernails scraped the steel sink rim, she stopped. Pressing both hands to the counter, she reached toward an unplugged toaster. She touched the toaster, then bumped an upright paper towel roll and a fruit basket. The only thing left at the end of the counter was a rack of knives.
She withdrew a shining blade and faced him. Though she had no eyes, she stared directly at him, her hand white-knuckling the knife grip.
“Shit, wait!” Trent hopped backward on his good foot. “My son—he’s blind. I had to do it. I’m sorry, but I had to!” He stumbled against the kitchen island behind him and turned, noticing a metal letter opener on the tiled surface. He stretched out for it, and his bad leg seized, dropping him across the surface.
“Rosita, don’t come closer. Otherwise, this’ll get ugly.” Even in his own ears, his voice lacked conviction.
She stepped forward. She touched her thumb to the blade’s tip.
“Look, I’m sorry!” he said, panting. He reached for the letter opener and knocked it to the floor. Shit. Unless he could figure out a way to defend himself with a used napkin, he was smoked. “Rosita. Please. Don’t kill me.”
“I won’t,” she said.
“You won’t?” He feared she was making some twisted joke. “For real?”
“You’re not the one who blinded me.”
Trent swallowed hard. “You mean…Ash.”
“Not her either,” she said. “My husband’s the one. Years ago he caught me in the back of the restaurant with one of our food suppliers. Christopher was his name. Handsome young man. Loved to flatter me. We got caught while I was unzipping his jeans. My husband later said he didn’t like the look in my eyes. That’s why he poured bleach over them.”
“Shit.” Trent eyed the knife. “You sure you want to do this?”
She frowned.
“Rosita?”
A wet, strangled sob burst from her throat.
Trent checked the microwave clock. The minutes were melting away. He needed to grab Jake and head for the creek. If Rosita wanted to feel sorry for herself, she’d have to do it without an audience.
“Listen, I gotta bounce.” He slid his good foot backward. “Anyone else you want me to call for you? Your kids? Anyone?”
She sniffled. Shook her head.
Both hands gripped the knife handle.
Trent needed to leave before she turned vengeful. He pivoted on his good foot and headed for the front door. Looking over his shoulder, he said, “Rosita, don’t do anything stupid. You’ll adjust. It’ll work out. Really.”
He didn’t believe it, but he hoped she did.
54
At Ash’s request, Snare released the three guards. After the creek loosened its watery hold, they sat up, gasping for air, dripping wet. None of them bothered to reach for their sunken guns. Frantically, they rushed onto dry land, peeling away soaked clothing. The first to face Ash was Elaine Richards, the craggy old waitress from the Downhill Diner. Instead of thanking Ash, the woman shouted, “That creek’s trying to kill us!”
“Really? You look alive to me,” Ash said.
“You’re wrong. Look at us.” Rubbing her wet arms, she shivered. “We’re gonna freeze to death. Catch pneumonia!”