We didn’t overlap anywhere, not in personality, not in school, not socially. When my friends had to take their little sisters with them to the movies or a football game, they heaved gusty sighs of faux exasperation. Their mothers urged them to “be nice” and remember how much their sisters loved them. My parents never said anything like that. They didn’t believe words could change the shape of a relationship. Even if they had, Zoe didn’t look at me like she loved me—she looked like she wanted to devour me. I can almost picture her bloody grin.
Someone did this to me. Someone wanted me afraid and alone, maybe even dead. Thinking that, knowing it, is like having my bones dissolve from the inside, and all my strength turns to water.
As the damp of the night air seeps into my skin and I extinguish any last quivering hint of tears, I build the case against Zoe. Just because she’s run away and found herself a new family doesn’t mean she’s been magically transformed into some sparkles-and-sunshine housewife. After all, those biting emails reached my inbox just days ago.
So I do what I always do when I need to get to some emotional truth. I “write” it out. I can almost feel the pen in my hand, but this will be a mental list. Neither pen nor paper came with me on this nightmare journey.
First, the simple litany of childhood complaints. Zoe stole innumerable articles of clothing, books, even papers I wrote. I’d find them crumpled under her bed, stained in the back of her closet, shoved to the bottom of her backpack. And always she watched me with fire in her hungry eyes.
Second, ever since my first story won an award, I’ve heard her hissing comments. That feeling you get when you step into a room and everyone falls silent, that moment like a street rat shouting that the emperor has no clothes—that’s the game she’s been playing with me for years. Zoe stands for every anonymous internet troll, every bad review, every cutting remark I secretly think might be true.
Third, Glenn. Even after three years, I wince at the flash of pain. In the guidebook of basic human decency, surely it states, “Thou Shalt Never Sleep With Your Sister’s Husband.”
But he wasn’t my husband then, I know that. I had told him to leave, that we were done. My words would bring the end to our story, or so I thought, until I tried to live without him. I couldn’t write my way out of my love and loneliness, my longing, all those romantic clichés, no matter how hard I wished those feelings away.
So I took him back, forgave him, married him.
But I can’t forgive her.
I bite my lip and hug myself closer, imagining the story unspooling without me. Glenn must be wild with fear. My parents won’t be worried, but Glenn will work furiously, tirelessly, hounding the police, shouting to the world that I am gone. I miss his strength, his certainty, the feel of his arms holding me close. Even as I try to conjure up the scent of him—birch and leather—some part of my mind coolly repeats that if I were writing this story, he would be the guilty party.
It’s always the husband. Always.
Now my arms are wrapped so tightly that it’s hard to breathe.
I don’t know how long it will be until morning. There are sounds in the forest around me, pops and rustles. This isn’t a fairy tale where a talking frog or friendly gnome holds the key to riches, adventure, and a safe return home. The smartest thing I can do now is stay put.
Once upon a time there was a woman who was strong and smart.
At daybreak, she saved herself.
And then she got revenge.
CHAPTER
7
AVA
CLOSING MY EYES, I hold that bedtime story in my heart like a candle against the dark, a promise to get me through the night. I am distinctly aware of the cold, the roughness of the rock behind me, and painful cramps in my calves and neck, but I will need as much rest as I can get, so I turn all my attention inward, imagining warmth and safety, even if they are illusions.
Finally, the darkness ebbs away.
The branches I pulled in front of the opening don’t block all the light, but this makeshift screen makes me feel safer, as though I control whether I am seen or not. My hand trembles as I brush aside a few leaves, their musty scent rising as I scan my surroundings. These could be the woods of North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, or some fairy-tale forest with a witch’s cottage and a big bad wolf.
My stomach is an empty crater, and the ending of a darker story rises within me. The woman disappeared in the dark woods and was never heard from again. No one knows where I am, not even me.
Shaking off my creeping despair, I crawl out of my hiding hole and head toward the sunlight filtering through the trees, which must be east. Heading seaward feels comforting. Even if I’m going deeper into the forest, I must be getting closer to home.
I’m lucky, I keep trying to convince myself. My feet crunch through the leaves as I count my blessings—lucky I broke free, lucky the temperature didn’t go below freezing last night—but I’m having a hard time forming a complete thought as I try to combat the shaking that’s spreading through my body.
And that’s when I hear it—a metallic buzzing sound that doesn’t belong in the forest. It slices through me, and I freeze with hope and dread. I don’t want to be caught again, but I can’t pass up a chance at salvation.
Forcing myself to move carefully, quietly, trying to subdue even my ever-quickening pulse, I head toward the distant sound. Sometimes it pauses, as if someone is listening, and I stop cold until it starts again. Some kind of power tool, I think, and my heart pounds in my ears. I am getting closer and closer, I think I see movement through the trees, and then suddenly everything goes completely silent.
If I move now, the person will definitely hear me. Either my attacker will grab me and I will be caught like my escape never happened, or I will have help, something to drink and eat, a safe haven until I’m in Glenn’s arms again.
I steel my nerves for another step. Leaves rustle and a branch breaks under my foot. Nothing happens in response. If this is an innocent person who just happens to be in the woods, one of us should call out a greeting to the other, but there is only the watchful silence.
I wish I could take that step back again.
An animal—a wolf?—explodes from the undergrowth, crashing into my chest, all gray fur and fangs and hot breath. I cry out as we fall to the ground and turn my head to the side, trying to press myself into the earth.
A woman’s voice says, “That’s enough, Zeus. Aus, drop it.”
With a last push, the weight of the dog leaves me and I can see his mistress clearly.
Backlit by the filtered sunlight, she stands above me in muddy hiking boots, brown pants with cargo pockets, and a cotton jacket in army green, her dark hair cropped close to her head. She doesn’t look much older than I am, and she stands, one arm akimbo, like a fairy huntsman at rest.
I am about to gasp out a plea for help when my brain registers the slim cattle prod in her right hand. She follows my gaze and raises an eyebrow.
“I’m not going to need to use this on you, am I, Ava? You’ll come with me and Zeus without any problems.”
Shaking, I stagger to my feet, chilled by her use of my name.
I have no idea who this woman is.
A small part of my brain issues one command after another: run, shout, demand answers, plead. But I am chilled and weary and afraid. And the futility of that small rebellious voice would bring tears to my eyes if there were a drop of moisture left in me.