“What?” her father asked sharply. “You don’t like them? I made a point to stop to pick these out for you and I don’t even get a thank-you?”
The little girl sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “Thank you,” she said blinking back the tears and reaching into the box. She pulled out one with a coffee-colored stain across the front of it.
“I don’t even know why I bother,” her father said knocking the book from her hand. The girl shoved her fingers into her mouth to take away the sting. “Ungrateful little shit,” her father muttered pushing the cardboard box from the table. The books spilled to the floor with a crash and the girl watched as her father stomped up the steps and locked the door behind him.
Later, after he left, her mother pulled the girl onto her lap. “See,” she said, stroking her hair. “I told you he lies. It’s better not to get your hopes up.”
22
Present Day
“Let me in,” Wylie cried as she pounded on the back door. The woman with the hatchet had dragged the boy out of sight. The house was completely dark now, all the flashlights turned off, and the fire had died out or had been extinguished. Tas had stopped barking, and the only sounds were Wylie’s ragged breathing and the moan of the bitter wind that cut through her clothing like a knife.
She couldn’t stay outside much longer, but she had no weapon. Wylie weighed her options. She could make her way back to the barn, search for something to protect herself with, and then return to the house.
Wylie knew there was no time for that. She had to get inside, had to get to the boy. She turned her head, shielded her face, and smashed an elbow into the glass, creating a fine spiderweb of cracks, but still the window held. Knowing that even the roar of the blizzard wouldn’t mask the sound of breaking glass, Wylie hit it again, and this time the window shattered, sending shards flying. Holding her breath, Wylie reached through the window and flipped the lock.
She opened the door and stepped into the mudroom, half expecting a hatchet to come swinging toward her head, but no one was there. No ax-waving maniac, no little boy. Not even Tas.
Wylie moved to the kitchen and shut the mudroom door behind her. She quickly groped through the drawers looking for a weapon until she came across a butcher knife buried beneath a jumble of cutlery. The steel blade was nearly eight inches long but dull, blunted by years of use. It would do.
Even in the short time that she’d been outside, the temperature inside the house had plummeted. Using the headlamp to guide her way forward, Wylie inched her way through the kitchen, taking small, hesitant steps. Wylie had one big advantage over the intruder, she knew this house. Knew the layout and knew the deepest recesses and darkest corners. She was halfway through the kitchen when she saw it. So imperceptible, she almost missed it—the basement door. Open just a sliver, barely enough to slide a piece of paper through.
The basement? Wylie wondered. Filled with cardboard boxes and old furniture, there were plenty of hiding spots, but why would an intruder take the boy down there? Wylie shuddered at the thought. She gently closed the door and locked it imprisoning whoever was on the other side.
If the boy and the woman were in the basement, at least she could contain them there for the time being.
On weak legs, Wylie moved down the hallway, through the empty dining room to the living room and paused. The fire was dead; only a few orange embers glowed. Wylie slowly scanned the room, her heart lurching when the headlamp’s beam landed on the sofa. There sat the woman cradling the hatchet in her arms.
Barely daring to breathe, Wylie crept forward, eyes fixated on the weapon in the woman’s hands. “What do you want?” Wylie asked, knife at the ready.
There was no answer and Wylie raised her eyes to the woman’s face.
It was definitely the woman from the crash. She was wearing Wylie’s coat and one side of her face was grotesquely swollen and the other side blackened with dried blood. The woman stared back in contempt. Wylie kept the knife raised and the narrow beam of the headlamp pinned on the intruder. It was 2:00 a.m. How had the woman survived all these hours out in the storm? It was impossible.
“Stay away,” the woman said swinging the hatchet toward Wylie.
“Jesus,” Wylie exclaimed, taking a step backward. “What the hell?” A sizzle of anger ran through her body. The woman had locked Wylie out of the house, would have gladly let her freeze to death, and was now swinging an ax at her head. All Wylie had done was try to help her. What was she up to?
And where was the boy? And Tas? Fear hardened in Wylie’s belly.