But no, Jenny had gone to work that day. Her coworkers had seen her leave to hitchhike back to the village. Which means he’d taken Jack’s truck and waited for her, knowing she was going to be long gone otherwise. He’d pulled up while she had her thumb out. She’d climbed in thinking she could spend a few more minutes trying to explain why she had to go. And that’s when he’d done it. Bluntly. He’d strangled her and then driven her to the river. All of it something he had to do. A horrible, soul-splitting thing. But part of him had liked it. Part of him had come alive for the first time.

“I don’t think you’re a monster, Caleb,” I say. “You can trust me. Let me help you find a way out of this.”

“No.” It’s barely visible, the way his muscles tense. Then a string breaks in him. He lunges with the knife toward the woodstove, toward me. Cricket snaps to her feet and rushes in front of him. It all happens faster than light moves. Slower than days whirl by, or years. Centuries.

Caleb loses his balance. Trips and stumbles over the dog’s body, comes close to me, but Cricket has no doubt now that I’m in danger. The growl in her throat is low and terrifying as I run for the bedroom door, misjudging it.

My shoulder bashes against the jamb. A protracted bounce as I keep hurtling forward, chaotic sounds behind me, Cricket barking as I’ve never heard her bark, and then a high yelp as if she’s been kicked or worse.

Now there are thundering steps along the hardwood floor. The fear in me is like something tectonic, but survival is even fiercer and more undeniable.

I reach the bed, plunge my hand beneath the mattress, feel the cool muzzle, the ridged grip like a message in braille to turn. Turn now.

But Caleb has lunged at me before I can lift my hand and pull the trigger. The force of him knocks the breath from my lungs. We crash hard to the floor together, his weight like a mountain on my chest.

I thrash beneath him, trying to get any kind of leverage, but gravity and strength are on his side. He pins me easily with his hip and elbow, his forearm like a club against my neck and larynx. The gun and my right hand crushed between us against my hip.

Dark spots swim through my vision as I fight for air. Fight to stay conscious.

He raises the knife, carves the air over my head. His face looms above me like some sort of warped and wretched planet as I search along the floor with my left hand, desperate for any kind of weapon. There’s nothing but hardwood, worn smooth through the decades.