In that instant, Margot saw herself clearly. She was struggling with the axe, trying to keep it upright, trying to get a measure of its weight. She hadn’t built up the muscles to use it. Already, in just a few seconds, her arms were starting to burn from the effort.

It had seemed like an excellent weapon earlier. And maybe if it was only used for show—to chase off teenage pranksters or nosy townspeople—it would have served its purpose perfectly.

But Margot knew, with the same steady certainty as the footfalls that had reached the top of the stairs and turned toward her room, that she would have to use the axe.

And she would fail.

It was too heavy. Too blunt. And her body was already exhausted, its adrenaline nearly drained. She wouldn’t be able to put any speed behind the blow or even angle it accurately enough to be sure the blade would hit home.

If she couldn’t hit the intruder on the first strike, there wouldn’t be enough time for a second try.

Margot let the axe drop onto the bed. The mattress creaked as it flexed under the weight. The horror of her miscalculation ground her insides raw.

The footsteps were in the hallway. Louder now, growing clearer with each one. The intruder had no doubts of where she was. Its path hadn’t erred even once.

Margot snatched her phone off the floor. Fear had robbed her of clear thought. She should have called someone on it as soon as she heard the footsteps outside the house; instead, she’d watched its light burn like a beacon.

Shaking fingers dialed the emergency help line. She pressed the phone to her ear. The footsteps were close. How long would it take for police to arrive? Did Leafell even have its own station? She couldn’t remember seeing one—

“How can I direct your call?” a man’s voice asked.

“Help—” Her voice shook. She didn’t need to whisper when the footsteps already traced a path toward her door, but the impulse was impossible to override. “Home intruder—”

Distant clicks from a keyboard came through the speaker. “What’s your address?”

“I…” Her head burned. Her heart felt like it was going to burst from the effort it took to beat. “It’s Gallows Hill. In Leafell. I don’t…”

She couldn’t remember the address. Had she even been told? Everyone called it Gallows Hill, nothing more. Kant had shown her the way to it. She hadn’t paid attention to the street or to the number on the letterbox.

“I need an address.” The man’s voice was too calm, too uninvolved. “Can you get somewhere you can see a street sign?”

She ended the call. When she blinked, tears ran over her lower lashes, unbidden.

Think. Think! You can’t be out of options!