Page 58 of Turn That River Red

I don’t, of course. I just stomp over to her, throw the blanket around her, and heave her up over my shoulder. She screams and kicks and having her on me like that is too much.Her fear wafts around me, as delicious as the scent of her lust, and I can’t stand it?—

I come with a strangled choke, a wet spot growing across my underwear.

I stare at the empty wall, sucking down breaths of air. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I gasp out, for what it feels like the millionth time.

I know she doesn’t believe me. I know it’s pointless. But at least it’s the truth.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

MERCY

Isob into the duct tape, my eyes sticky with my tears. I keep expecting to run out of them somehow, like I’ll sob so much that all the moisture will leach out of my body. But of course that doesn’t happen. I keep weeping.

Tires scrape against asphalt. I’m in the back seat of Ambrose’s ancient sedan, still bound in duct tape and wrapped up in the blanket from the cabin. Static-laced country music plays softly in the background. Max is curled up next to me, his body warm and soft and comforting. I don’t understand it.

I’m not going to hurt you, Ambrose keeps saying, but he already has.

He’s the demon that tormented my home. He’s the killer.

I’m so, so stupid.

I close my eyes. My weeping is mostly silent now, just an endless river of tears and an all-encompassing web of despair that wraps around me like a blanket. Ambrose hasn’t said anything since he got in his car and started driving. I don’t even know how he got off the compound without anyone seeing. He never stopped and talked to anyone. Just laid me in the back seat, got behind the wheel, and drove away.

This is what you wanted,some small, vicious voice whispers in the back of my head.You wanted to abandon Reverend Gunner. Now the devil’s stolen you away.

The devil also stopped Deacon Price, another thought I can’t bear to consider.

I let out a soft sob against the duct tape, my body shuddering. Max lifts his head and whines a little. Then he licks my face. I shouldn’t trust Ambrose’s dog, should I? But I think Max is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind.

“Is she okay back there?” It’s the first thing Ambrose has said since we left the Church of the Well.

Max barks once.

“Good.”

I lay still, holding my breath. I feel like a little girl hiding from a monster. If Ambrose doesn’t hear me, he’ll forget I’m here.

“I’m taking you west,” he says, shattering the illusion. He sounds exactly as he did before I knew what he was, his voice low and rough with that reassuring Texas twang. “Got a place out in the flatlands. It’s nice. You’ll like it.”

“Take me home!” I scream into the duct tape, although it doesn’t sound anything like that. But somehow, Ambrose seems to understand.

“Yeah, I can’t do that,” he says. “Can’t risk you telling them what I am.”

I scream in frustration, kicking my legs out. Max whines and nudges at me, but I roll away from him, trying to flip onto my other side. I can’t, though. The back seat is too narrow.

“We’ll be there in about an hour,” Ambrose says. “Just try to relax.”

My vision floods with tears, and I slump against the seat, my tears wet and choking.

“You’re completely safe,” he says, as if he hasn’t carved my heart out a million times over.

My eyes flutteropen to dusty, hazy sunlight. There are a few seconds where all I feel is a vague stir of confusion—How did I oversleep? I never oversleep—and then the memories of last night come slamming through me.

I jerk up to sitting, shocked when I realize my hands aren’t bound. Neither are my feet. I’m also in a bed, the blankets tucked around me. I’m still naked, through.

Terror courses through my chest, and I scramble up to standing, dragging the blanket up to cover my nudity. I’m in a small, tidy bedroom, the furniture dated but clean. There are thin curtains across the windows and a chest of drawers in the corner, my dress lying across the top.

I scurry over and grab the dress and slide it back on, along with my underwear. I’m not sure how to feel about it, that Ambrose—if that’s even his name—left my clothes for me. I don’t see my shoes, though.

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