In the trees, she feels protected. There’s a clearing between where she is now and the studio cabin, and she skirts the edge instead of cutting straight across even though it would be faster. She’s thinking of the gun in his hand: better off ducking branches, staying in the cover of the woods. She gets as close as she can before darting out into the open. The snow between her and the studio door is hip-deep and ice-crusted and she plows her way through, muscles screaming.

But when she gets there, her heart drops into her belly. She slams her good hand against the lock.

It’s iced over. The new storm has coated the door, the handle, everything like a shield. She looks over her shoulder, frantic, scratching at the ice with ragged fingernails, pressing the heat of her hand against it, anything to get inside—but then there’s the glimmer of his light and it’s already too late.

There’s no one to yell for, no help coming. Just Maeve, alone. Wind whips at her ears, her fingers. She realizes that she is shaking.

She looks down to see a new shadow, a dark stain spreading in the snow at her feet. The line of her old scar runs across her palm, now just a broken parallel to this new wound, open and bleeding, her hand slick with it. She knows what the scent of warm blood can attract out here. The thought makes her gag a little bit, but she holds it in her mind.

She needs to find someplace safe, fast.

She can’t double back to the center—there are too many doors, too many windows, too many ways he could get in. But a wild idea works its way into her thoughts: There’s still one more place. High up on the ridge, where the ledge leans out over the frozen river valley.

One last place to go.

Far to her left, there’s a sudden crack, and then the gunshot echoes through the woods around her. A warning?

She can’t stay here.

She squeezes her fist and counts to five, waiting to see the stutter of the flashlight beam one more time.

Then she runs.

Day 1

Day 1

Maeve startles awake, her head throbbing.

They’ve hit a bump or train tracks, and she’s jostled roughly against the side of the shuttle bus, her temple smacking the window as the vehicle lurches to a sudden halt. Outside, rain lashes at the ground. A three-hour trip up the mountain from the airport. The last village, High Water, some ten miles below them now.

Maeve is the only passenger left. She’s staring out the window into the night, her own reflection just an outline in the glass against all that darkness; her dancer’s bone structure, high cheekbones and wide eyes, dark hair lost to the black of outside.