Margot glared at him, defying him to tell her she couldn’t be outside the land. He didn’t try to speak, though, but only watched her with none of his thoughts showing on his face.

“I’m not going back.”

“I won’t force you,” he said.

Margot let her eyes close again. She had very few plans for what to do next. Her car was still parked outside the house; she would abandon it there. Along with her clothes, her cell phone, everything she had.

She’d hitch a ride away from the town. Or if no one would pick her up, she’d walk. Everything beyond that was hazy. But it didn’t matter. All she really cared about at that moment was being away from the poisonous, hateful land and its twisted, broken house.

Being safe.

For that moment, it was enough to be outside the barrier. Her feet ached. The throbbing in her arm was starting to awaken. She wanted to rest and think and gather herself.

She opened one eye. Kant was still there, silent, patient. To fill the quiet, she said, “You remember what happened when I was a child, don’t you? Why they sent me away?”

“Mm.” He took a slow breath. “You were always curious. Asked me endless questions about my work. Always getting into the tunnels and the cellars. Curiosity is good for a child. But not in Gallows Hill.”

She shifted forward, trying to ease some of the tension out of her aching muscles. “What happened?”

“When things began to get bad—when the curse woke—your parents would try to keep you safe. They locked your window. Warned you about the dangers of leaving your room at night. But you wanted to understand the strange things you could see from your window. You went exploring. Once, when things were very bad, you got out of the house.”

He raised a hand and drew it across his chest, down to his stomach. “The dead ones got to you. Hugh, Maria, and I managed to get them off, but it was bad. You couldn’t leave your bed for a week. Maria cried so much—”

His voice cracked. He paused, clearing his throat, then continued.

“The bad patch passed. You healed, though you would always carry the scars. Maria and Hugh thought you would be safe from then on. That you’d be cautious. But four months later, we hit another bad time, and once again you tried to go outside.”

Margot’s hand fluttered to near her collarbone, where the scars began. She could picture the lines in her mind. A jagged map marking where long fingernails had sliced through her skin.

Even that hadn’t been enough to make her cautious. She didn’t know whether to laugh or grimace. Her grandmother had always said she was a nightmare to control when she was little. Too much stubbornness condensed in a little body, she’d said.