Setting her jaw, she pushed herself upright and ignored the headache pounding behind her eyes and the pain splintering up her leg from an ankle that felt as big as a cantaloupe. Her stomach grumbled, but that was to be expected. Slowly, painfully, she pushed her way up the bank and felt the ground. She thought she’d seen a stick she could use as a crutch, something to lean on, but her progress would be slow. Her plan, if she had one, was to walk as far as she could into the forest and then, come first light, head farther downriver.

She had searched for signs of civilization, a light shining on either side of the river, but here, in the middle of nowhere, the darkness offered no beacon of hope. Even if she caught sight of a flashlight’s beam, she would have to hold her tongue for fear that is was the freak on her trail. Although there were night fishermen and poachers and alligator hunters—all of whom would use a flashlight to find and kill prey—she wouldn’t know whether the light was generated by an outdoorsman or the douchebag himself.

Slowly she inched her way up the bank, her skin raw and muddy, her thoughts returning to Chloe. God, where was her twin? Hopefully, Zoe prayed, at a police station telling the cops what had happened, or somewhere using a telephone and calling Dad. He would know what to do. Not Mom. Not first. She would just fall apart or scold before she pulled herself together and called the authorities.

Zoe’s heart grew heavier when she thought of her mother. No doubt Selma was going out of her mind with worry, having no idea of the terrifying circumstances her daughters had fallen into. She might even be pissed, thinking Zoe and Chloe were hungover somewhere and sleeping it off.

If only.

Her hand slid along a sharp blade of some kind of grass, which sliced into her skin.

“Crap!” Zoe whispered, jerking her arm back. “Shit!”

Craaack!

A twig snapped nearby.

Zoe froze.

Heart beating a wild tattoo, she strained to determine the source of the noise. All the while she braced herself, certain that the monster would leap out of the darkness, a machete raised, his eyes and teeth gleaming hideously in the barest light from the weak crescent moon.

Her skin crawled and she slid her fingers through the darkness, across weeds and grime, searching for a rock or stick, any kind of weapon.

Ssssh.

A rustle in the brush. Movement in the cattails and nettles.

God, have mercy.

Her fingertips scraped across a stone buried deep in the mud. She dug around the edges, forcing her nails and fingers to clutch the golf ball–sized rock and jerk it upward. A sucking sound ensued.

Okay, Freak, I’m ready for you—

The grass beside her shifted.