She opened the door to the toolshed and over the wail of the wind she shouted, “The wood is in there. We can both grab an armful and that should keep us going through the night.”
Jackson nodded and they both stepped into the dark outbuilding. “It’s back there,” Wylie said briefly lighting up a far corner with her flashlight. She then used the light to scan the space for a slim, sturdy tool. Her eyes landed on screwdriver and she snatched it from the wall.
“I don’t see it,” Jackson said. “Can you shine that light back this way again?”
This was when Wylie made her move. She gave Jackson a quick shove from behind causing him to stumble and fall to his knees.
“Hey,” Jackson cried out in surprise.
Wylie turned and ran, heart pounding. She thought she heard his footsteps behind her, his hot breath on her neck, and for a moment, she was back in the cornfield, trying to outrun a killer. Wylie didn’t pause, didn’t look back to see how far behind her he was.
She slammed the door behind her, flipped the hasp and frantically slid the screwdriver in place, locking the door just as his body thudded into it.
“Hey,” Jackson yelled and pounded on the door. “Let me out!”
Wylie pressed her back against the door as Jackson threw his body into the heavy wooden door. The door vibrated but her makeshift lock was strong. It would hold, at least for now.
From within the shed came a guttural scream and the sound of footsteps and the crash of his shoulder striking the wood. Then came the bumps and grunts of someone falling to the ground.
Then there was nothing. No sound. No movement on the other side of the door.
She had to find her gun, had to find a way to keep Jackson locked in the shed and out of the house. She would keep Becky and her daughter safe and she would kill Jackson Henley if she had to.
41
Wylie had been gone a long time. The girl slid from her spot on the sofa next to her mother, who was rocking back and forth and moaning, “He’s coming, he’s coming.”
Was her mother right? Had her father found them? If so, he would kill them all. Maybe, she thought, if she talked to her father, Wylie could get away. Find help. Carrying her flashlight, the girl slipped from the sofa and tiptoed to the kitchen just as Wylie flew through the back door, slammed it shut, and pressed her back against it as if trying to keep it closed.
“Is it my dad?” the girl asked.
“Yes,” Wylie said. “It’s him. Grab a chair from over there.” She nodded toward the kitchen table.
Josie dragged the chair over to Wylie and watched as she tipped the chair on two legs and slid the top rail beneath the doorknob.
Her father was somewhere outside, the girl thought. Only a few inches of wood stood between them.
“He’ll get in,” the girl said resignedly. “He’ll get in.”
“No,” Wylie told her breathing heavily. “I won’t let him. And if he gets through the door, he won’t get past me. I won’t let him hurt you anymore.”
Then there was silence. They stood there for a long time, listening, waiting. Nothing came.
Wylie turned toward the girl. “Your mom’s name is Becky, isn’t it?”
The girl froze. Did she trust Wylie? You’ll know, her mother had told her. You’ll know.
“Please,” Wylie said. “I have to know. Is her name Becky?”
The little girl nodded and Wylie covered her eyes and wept.
42
Present Day
Embarrassed by her rare outburst of emotion, Wylie quickly dried her eyes and stared at the little girl in disbelief. The woman in the other room was Becky. This was Becky’s daughter. The girl that everyone thought was dead was alive. And the man that killed Wylie’s family and kept Becky a prisoner was locked in the toolshed.
Wylie pressed her face to the window and looked toward the shed for any sign of movement from Jackson. All was quiet. Maybe he had hurt himself trying to break down the door. Or maybe he was just waiting for Wylie to let down her guard.
They would just have to stay alert and wait. Wylie was good at waiting. All those years ago, she had waited for someone to come into the cornfield to save her, waited for someone to save her parents, her brother, Becky. She waited for Jackson Henley to be put in prison for murdering her family. But none of those things came to be until now. Becky had come home.
Wylie could wait Jackson Henley out. She had been doing it for twenty-two years; what was one more day?
Taking the little girl by the hand, Wylie led her to the living room. Becky was gone from the sofa. Wylie pulled the missing person’s flyer from the file folder.