“Amelia’s a damn traitor and we can’t trust her an inch. Listen, Jesse, I saw that look on your face when you saw she wasn’t under the boat. You were relieved. I know you think you like her and you’re hoping she likes you…. No, no, let me finish. But she busted a killer outa jail. And if you’d been the one out there in the river instead of Ned, Amelia’d have shot at you just as fast.”

He began to protest but the chill look in her eyes kept him quiet.

“It’s easy to get infatuated with somebody like that,” Lucy continued. “She’s pretty and she’s from someplace else, someplace exotic…. But she doesn’t understand life down here. And she doesn’t understand Garrett. You know him—that’s one sick boy and it’s just a fluke that he’s not doing life right now.”

“I know Garrett’s dangerous. I’m not arguing there. It’s Amelia I’m thinking of.”

“Well, it’s us that I’m thinking of and everybody else in Blackwater Landing that boy could be planning on killing tomorrow or next week or next year if he gets away from us. Which he might just do, thanks to her. Now, I need to know if I can count on you. If not, you can go on home and we’ll have Jim send somebody else in your place.”

Jesse glanced at the box of shells. Then back to her. “You can, Lucy. You can count on me.”

“Good. You better mean that. ’Cause at first light I’m tracking them down and bringing ’em both back. I hope alive but, I tell you, that’s become optional.”

Mary Beth McConnell sat alone in the cabin, exhausted but afraid to sleep.

Hearing noises everywhere.

She’d given up on the couch. She was afraid that if she remained there she’d stretch out and fall asleep then wake to find the Missionary and Tom gazing at her through the window, about to break in. So she was perched at a dining room chair, which was about as comfortable as brick.

Noises…

On the roof, on the porch, in the woods.

She didn’t know what time it was. She was afraid to even push the light button on her wristwatch to glimpse the face—out of the crazy fear that the flash would somehow beckon to her attackers.

Exhausted. Too tired even to wonder again why this had happened to her, what she might have done to prevent it.

No good deed goes unpunished…

She stared out at the field in front of the cabin, now completely black. The window was like a frame around her fate: Whom would it show approaching through the field? Her killers or her rescuers?

She listened.

What was that noise: A branch on bark? Or the rasp of a match?