Then there would be no reason to hesitate.

The ritual would be quick. Orderly. Complete.

Thinking ahead, pressing through the deep woods, he licked his lips in anticipation of running Zoe to the ground and hauling her back to the cabin.

What satisfaction that would bring.

He couldn’t wait.

The trees thinned a bit, and he spied his dog leaping through the tall grass. Squinting, he thought he made out a movement ahead of Red, a person stumbling through the weeds.

“Gotcha,” he said, knowing that the dog had flushed Zoe out of the forest.

Perfect.

It was just a matter of time before he reached her, and he was going to savor every sweet second of his revenge. She looked frantic, hobbling feverishly. The dog barked again and she glanced over her shoulder, only to turn and try to run in the opposite direction.

As if she had an escape route.

As if she actually thought she could get away.

And then he heard it.

The distinctive hum of traffic.

What?

Heart pounding, he focused on the space between Zoe and the horizon, and spied a pickup truck traveling beyond the fence line. And after the truck came two cars. And a semi heading the opposite direction.

“Fuck!” he swore, the sound a rattling rasp. He sprang into action, running forward, calculating the angle between Zoe and the road. He couldn’t let her reach the highway. Wouldn’t.

He was gonna cut her off, tackle her before she got to the road. Then he’d haul her back to the cabin, prepare her, and finally take her life. It would be all over soon.

But if he didn’t reach her before she flagged down the driver of a passing vehicle?

Oh, shit!

Myra would be beyond pissed.

Adrenaline firing his blood, he shot across the brush-covered land. His legs pumped as each breath was drawn in and expelled through his bruised windpipe. Faster! Faster! He’d been an athlete in school, a hunter afterward, and could run miles without difficulty. But it was hard to run in hunting boots, packing a gun and being beaten as he had been. Still, he should be able to overtake a wounded girl.

Pushing his muscles, pumping his arms, he focused on Zoe, ignored the pain, and ran flat out.

He’d make it.

He’d stop that little bitch.

Or, damn it, he’d die trying.

Selma Denning was a wreck. The poor woman nearly shattered into a million pieces when Bentz and Montoya showed up on her doorstep. At their arrival, she’d been certain they’d come to report one of her daughters dead.

“No, no, we’re just here to ask a few questions,” Bentz assured the distraught woman.