Page 80 of The Overnight Guest

Wylie staggered to her feet. Blood flowed down her temple from the gash in her head. Then a thought came to her. The Bronco. It was at the far end of the barn. Wylie started to run toward the vehicle. She leaned against the car and scanned the barn in search of a weapon. At least she could go down fighting, shed as much of Randy’s blood as possible. She waited until Randy turned his back in order to begin his descent down the hayloft ladder and then sprang into action. She yanked open the Bronco’s door and quickly shut it behind her as she slid into the driver’s seat.

She reached into her pants pocket in search of her car keys, all the while watching Randy descend. From the glove box she grabbed a flashlight and set it on the seat next to her.

With shaking hands, she tried to insert the key into the ignition but fumbled and dropped the key ring. “Dammit,” she muttered, snaking her hand between the seats, feeling around frantically until her fingers landed on the cold metal.

Wylie took a deep breath and willed her trembling hands to still. She slid the key into the ignition and forced herself to wait. The timing had to be perfect. She clicked her seat belt into place, counted to three, and turned the key. She flipped on the headlights and Randy looked over his shoulder when he heard the roar of the engine coming to life.

Wylie threw the car into gear and stomped on the accelerator. The Bronco surged forward. The scream of metal on metal filled her ears as the speeding vehicle grazed the riding lawn mower pushing the Bronco too far right. Wylie swung the steering wheel to the left and back on course.

Through the windshield, Wylie could see Randy clinging to the ladder trying to decide what to do. He hesitated a split second too long. And for one brief moment, their eyes locked, and Wylie saw the fear in Randy’s eyes.

She imagined it was the same terror that her mother and father felt before he shot and killed them. The terror that Ethan felt when Randy wrapped his gloved hands around his neck and squeezed, the terror that thirteen-year-old Becky felt when he stole her away from her family and subjected her to the unspeakable. And the terror the girl felt growing up with a monster.

Wylie gripped the steering wheel more tightly, preparing for impact. The Bronco struck Randy squarely in the legs and he screamed. Later, Wylie would wonder if it was the snap of the ladder or Randy’s legs that she heard just before he flipped over the hood and bounced across the roof of the car.

Wylie slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. She careened into the barn wall. The crack of splintering wood filled her ears, the crunch of metal and the shatter of glass as she came face-to-face with a wall of white.

47

When Wylie told the girl to run, she scrambled down the hayloft ladder through the barn and across the yard to the house. Tas was sitting by the door looking cold and despondent. Once inside, she slammed the door shut and turned the lock.

Heart slamming against her chest, she ran to the living room where her mother stood, still holding the shotgun.

“Mama?” she asked.

“Where are they?” her mother asked.

“In the barn,” the girl said, eyeing her mother nervously. “Wylie said she’d be back. But I think he’s going to kill her.”

“Josie,” her mother said. “Her name was Josie. She was my best friend.”

“Josie?” the girl asked in confusion. Her mother was scaring her.

“Go hide, sweetie,” her mother said. “I won’t let him hurt you. Go hide where no one can find you.”

“Okay, Mama,” the girl said. Instead of hiding, she went to a window at the back of the house where she could see the barn. “Hurry up, hurry up,” she whispered, begging Wylie—Josie—to return. What if her father came back and Wylie didn’t? What would she do? She’d have to listen to him, he was her father, but she knew he was a bad man.

From the direction of the barn, the girl heard the rev of an engine and then the splinter of wood as a car crashed through the wall of the barn and came to a jolting stop. Wood and debris showered atop the car and tumbled to the ground.

The girl hurried back to the living room, dropped to the floor, and slid her hand beneath the sofa. Her fingers brushing across thick dust until she found what she was looking for and got to her feet. Wylie needed her help.

48

Present Day

Wylie mentally scanned her body for any injuries. Her chest ached from being held back by the seat belt, and she knew she was going to have a hell of a sore neck the next day, but everything else seemed to be in one piece. She opened her eyes. The front windshield looked like an intricate spider’s web. She had driven right through the barn wall.

With a moan, Wylie released her seat belt and tried the driver’s side door, but it was blocked by a snowdrift. She crawled over the gearshift and tested the passenger door, and it swung open just wide enough that she was able to get out. Wylie’s legs felt rubbery as she stepped out of the Bronco and into the dark, her only light coming from the nearly full moon.

The back half of the vehicle was still inside the barn, and the wooden planks above the hole sighed and swayed. Afraid that the barn’s remaining section was going to come tumbling down, Wylie picked her way around the rubble to a safe distance away. Her first instinct was to hurry back outside to make sure that the girl and Becky were okay. But before she did that, Wylie knew she had to look for Randy and make sure that he was incapacitated or dead.

With heavy legs, Wylie stepped through the debris and back inside the barn. She scanned the floor for Randy. He should have been somewhere nearby, but there was no sign of him except for a streak of blood on the ground.

The hair on the back of Wylie’s neck stood up. She couldn’t imagine anyone surviving the impact. Wylie reached for a hammer sitting in a jumble of tools and followed the bloody path as it wound its way around old furniture and broken-down farm equipment.

She held her breath as she turned each corner, expecting Randy to be there, ready to pounce. Instead, she found him on his stomach, trying to army crawl across the floor, his right leg bent, bloodied, and dragging uselessly behind him.

“There’s nowhere to run, Randy,” Wylie said, echoing the same warning he had given her. He turned his face to the sound of her voice, and Wylie bit back a gasp of revulsion. The right side of his face was shredded, his nose bent at an unnatural angle.

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