She moves closer. Slow, like a statue animating. “You never appreciated him like I do. You never saw all he did for us.” Another step.

“Stay back,” I say.

“Why? What do you think I’m going to do?”

“Just stay back.”

Cora brings the knife in front of her, takes one more stride forward, and stops. She’s now ensconced in shadows, as all boogeymen are.

“I’m not like him,” she says. “Not as loyal. I’ll do whatever I need to, to whomever I need to, in order to make sure secrets remain secrets. Even if that means family.”

I take three steps back, sliding the phone back in my pocket, wanting both hands free. My car is unlocked, and I’m guessing I’m faster than Cora. But would I have enough time to pop the trunk and search for the tire iron before she attacks?

I decide the best move, if it comes to it, is to just get to the car, get inside, lock the doors, and get the hell out of here. Out of the park. Out of my father’s home.

Out of Bury.

“Don’t be so skittish, Rose. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You have a knife,” I say.

“This isn’t for you. I’m leaving this here, out on the trail, somewhere in a safe hiding space. Safe, like Caleb. This is the knife you don’t want found.”

“That’s what you used to kill the dog?” I ask.

“I’m just saying you don’t want this knife turning up with the police. Nor do you want the police talking to me, because I have a very distinct memory of that night that’s probably very different from yours. I can be pretty convincing, you know. And when they realize what you were capable of when you were only fifteen, they’ll easily believe you killed your husband, too. It all fits together.”

I’m horrified by how right she is, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of showing it.

“You’re the one who wrote about these very coincidental things in your books,” she continues. “And you and I know the scene about the boy is true, so why wouldn’t the wife-killing-husband scene also be true?” Cora tilts her head to one side. “That’s your weakness, Rose. Your ego. You just had to write about the past, didn’t you? You had to brag about it.”

“Brag? Do you know how many nights I wake up in horror because I dream about what happened?” My voice is far from a whisper now. “I wrote that to help release it from my brain. I’m not like you, Cora. I live in constant shame and guilt over that night.”

“Well, then, I’m surprised in the last twenty years you never went to the police.”

“There’s still time for that.”

She walks up to me but I hold my ground. The simmering fear I’ve had all night suddenly vanishes, replaced by a desire to inflict pain. This is what soldiers must feel at the brink of a battle, the moment they finally push forward through fear and into the fray. Violent destiny.