Dahlia tried to run, too, but she was neither as fast nor as nimble. She tore into the woods, but with howls of fury the Rovers gave chase. The air was abruptly split by the sound of whistles—like the gym teacher in high school used—and after a moment there were answering whistles from deeper in the woods.

That’s when Dahlia realized the full scope of her mistake. If she’d done as she was taught, then maybe there would have been a way out. Now she was caught in a trap with who knew how many of the killers.

She ran.

Other bits of Old Man Church’s training came to her, guiding her. She cut left and right, avoided collision with bushes whose branches might be damaged by her passing and thereby be proof of her direction. She stepped on flat rocks and leaped over obstacles, then changed direction two or three times after landing. She cut back across her own trail to confuse pursuit. All the time the whistles screeched, signaling one to the other as the Rovers tried to catch her. Some blasts were long and steady; others short and staccato. There was some kind of pattern to it, but there was no time to suss out what it was. The Rovers were likely using the whistles to talk to each other.

She heard one whistle directly ahead and dropped low, becoming absolutely still as a Rover broke from the woods, a hunting hatchet in his hand. He looked left and right but did not see her, and then ran to follow the call of another shrill whistle blast. As soon as he was gone, Dahlia rose and moved into a dense stand of pine trees.

And there was a Rover directly in front of her. Tall. Powerful.

Familiar.

She jerked to a stop and stared with horrified eyes.

“Trash . . . ?” she whispered.

Time seemed to freeze into a bitter nothing as they stood there, six feet apart. He was dressed in leather now. Like them. She looked for a necklace of grim trophies, but he wore none. Dahlia wasn’t sure if that was a relief. Maybe it only meant he needed to start his collection. Which part of her would he cut off to buy his way into their trust?

Whistles in various patterns cut the air. Trash lifted his head to listen, then his eyes dropped back to meet hers.

“Dahlia,” he said.

“Please,” she begged.

He raised his whistle and put it between his lips. Those lips. The ones she had kissed too many times. The lips that had whispered such sweet things to her in the nights. The lips that had kissed her when she woke from nightmares.

“Please . . . ” she whispered and raised her knife.

He blew his whistle. Three short blasts.

“Go,” he said fiercely. “Go south. Now!”

She lingered a moment longer, seeing the terrible pain in his eyes. Then he gave a single small, sad smile.