Another gunshot. The floor shudders near her hand and she feels a cough of stinging splinters—she jerks her hand back like it got bit by a snake. Feels blood from the splinters. And still she has no shell.

Petry’s up. No longer making a secret of his movements. Footsteps—thump thump thump. She shouldn’t have given away the plan, shouldn’t have gotten cocky—

Atlanta cries out, scrambles to stand, the iPod clattering to the floor—

There he is. In the dark. Flash of teeth. Gun up.

She swings the shotgun like a bat. Barrel in her hand, stock slamming against his shoulder. The Winchester stock breaks in half with a bony snap—suddenly Petry is lunging for her, no gun in his hand—did he drop it? No time to worry about that now—his hands close around her throat and drop her back to the floor between the couch and table, thumbs pressing tight against her windpipe, fingers crushing the blood flow to her brain.

She’s been here before. A man on top of her. These hands are tighter, much tighter, but the feeling is still the same—heavier than the compressed density of a black hole, his knee between her knees, his breath hot in her nose and mouth. This is an act of anger, not of lust, but to her it matters little. The shotgun is out of reach. Everything is out of reach. She’s alone. No dog. No mother. Chris is dead.

A deeper darkness bleeds in from the edges, a puddle of tar threatening to smother . . .

Atlanta starts to shut down. Stops struggling. Just let it go. It’s all her fault. She opened the door, and the demon came in. Invited. What did she think would happen? Is this what she wanted all along? Does she deserve this?

Maybe she does.

But then Petry’s eyes flash, a shimmer of sudden hunger. Not at her. At something else.

He lets go of her neck. Reaches to her side, pulls up the iPod.

She has no idea if it’s still recording. Atlanta sees fireworks behind her eyes.

Oxygen rushes to her brain. Her skull a pulsing blood bag.

It brings renewed vigor. It carries fresh anger.

She gets her arm, loops it around the leg of the coffee table, and pulls it hard right toward her. The side of the table jams into his temple, and she thinks, Here’s my chance—

But it’s not enough. He takes the iPod in his hand and smashes it against the top of her head. Again she sees stars spinning dizzily in the dark of her eye as plastic sticks in her skin and pain kicks her like a horse. Everything collapses inward—moments shuddering, shuttered.

The iPod’s broken . . .

Her thoughts, broken.

No longer recording . . .

His weight is off her.

Tries to stand.

Can’t.

Hand out, steadies her against the couch.