At the cabin, Tina succeeds in breaking through the front door. It yawns open, the threshold a dark and festering mouth, ready to swallow me whole. The car’s headlights point directly at it, the beams slicing the quickening dusk all the way into the cabin, where a patch of dusty floor basks in the glow.

That glimpse inside the cabin triples the dread that’s formed in my lungs. It feels like glass, puncturing the spongy tissue, cutting off airflow. When Tina marches back to the car, I have no choice but to run.

Only I can’t.

Standing is far different from sitting up. Now that I’m out of the car and on my feet, the drugs take hold again, knocking me off balance. I drift sideways, steeling myself for the inevitable fall. But Tina is there, holding me upright. The knife flies to my neck and hovers there, blade scritching my skin.

“Sorry, babe,” she says. “There’s no getting out of this.”

Tina hauls me toward the cabin as I thrash in her grip. My heels dig into the gravel, doing nothing to slow us, twin trails of resistance all I have to show for the effort. One of my arms is trapped under one of hers. The arm that holds the knife, which I can’t see but can certainly feel. My chin bumps the hilt every time I scream. Which is often.

When not screaming, I try to talk Tina out of doing whatever she intends to do.

“You can’t do this,” I say, huffing the words, spittle flying. “You’re like me. A survivor.”

Tina doesn’t answer. She just keeps dragging me to the cabin door, now only ten yards away.

“Your stepfather was abusing you, right? That’s why you killed him?”

“Something like that, yeah,” Tina says.

Her grip loosens. Just a hair. Enough to make me know I’m getting to her.

“But they sent you to Blackthorn,” I say. “Although you weren’t crazy. You were protecting yourself. From him. And that’s what you’ve been trying to do ever since. Protect women. Hurt the men who hurt them.”

“Stop talking,” Tina says.

I don’t. I can’t.

“And at Blackthorn, you met Him.”

I’m no longer talking about Earl Potash. Tina knows this, for she says, “He had a name, Quincy.”

“Were you close? Was He your boyfriend?”

“He was my friend,” Tina says. “My only fucking friend. Ever.”

She stops our tumultuous drag to the cabin. She tightens her grip around me, the knife’s edge pressing into the flesh right under my chin. I want to swallow but can’t out of fear it will cause the blade to break the skin.

“Say his name,” she orders. “You need to say it, Quincy.”

“I can’t,” I say. “Please don’t make me.”

“You can. And you will.”

“Please.” The word is choked out, barely audible. “Please, no.”

“Say his fucking name.”

I swallow against my will. A gulp that forces my neck further onto the knife blade. It stings like a burn. Hot and pulsing. Tears pop from my eyes.

“Joe Hannen.”

A rush of vomit follows, riding the words as they spew from my mouth. Tina keeps the knife where it is as even I heave up the contents of my stomach. Coffee and grape soda and parts of pills that haven’t yet wormed their way into my body.

When it’s over, I don’t feel any better. Not with the knife still at my neck. Not with five short yards separating me from Pine Cottage. I’m still sick, still dizzy. More than anything, I’m spent, my body weakened to the point of paralysis.

Tina resumes pulling me to the cabin and I comply. There’s no more fight left in me. All I can do is cry as strands of puke droop from my chin.

“Why?” I say.

But I already know why. She was here that night. With Him. She helped Him kill Janelle and all the others. Just as she had helped Him kill those campers in the woods. Just as she later killed Lisa, despite her claims to the contrary.

“Because I need to know how much you can remember,” Tina says.

“But why?”

Because it will help her decide if I need to be killed, too. Just like Lisa.

We’re at the door now, that insidious mouth. A chill whispers from deep inside, faint and shivery.

I begin to scream. Panicked ones that erupt from my bile-coated throat.

“No! Please, no!”

I grab the doorframe with my free hand, fingernails digging into the wood. Tina gives one sharp tug and the wood snaps in my grip, breaking away. I drop the splintered chunk and keep screaming.

Pine Cottage has welcomed me home.

CHAPTER 40

I fall silent once I’m actually inside.

I don’t want Pine Cottage to know I’m here.

Tina lets me go and gives me a shove. I tumble into the middle of the great room, skidding across the floor and leaving a wide streak of dust. Inside, it’s blessedly dark. The grimy windows block most of the waning light from outside. The open door lets in the yellow glow of the headlights—a rectangle of brightness stretching along the floor. In its center is Tina’s shadow, arms crossed, blocking my escape.

“Remember anything?” she says.

I look around, curiosity mingling with terror. Water stains darken the walls. Or maybe it’s blood. I try not to look at them. There are more stains on the ceiling, circular ones. Definitely water damage. Nests and cobwebs crowd the rafters. Sections of floor are splattered with bird shit. A dead mouse lies in a corner, dried to leather.