Chapter Thirty-Two

IT IS PITCH BLACK, ANDthe logging roads are dark and bumpy. Inside, the car is silent. Chelsey white-knuckles the steering wheel, hyperaware of the trees rising around them, of how small they are in comparison. Finally, her headlights catch on a familiar vehicle.

"Kat's car." Chelsey dips her chin to the side of the road, where the Corolla has been haphazardly abandoned.

"Yep," Danny says, tight-lipped. The tense air in the car ratchets up a notch. Ellie is out here, somewhere in these woods. I am coming, Ellie, Chelsey keeps thinking over and over again. Hold tight. Hold on. Her chest fills with longing.

"I'm going to turn my lights off."

Danny shifts uneasily. "Okay."

Chelsey clicks off the headlights, the cab darkens, their cheeks instantly awash in the ink of night. Slower they move on. Cell service went out a few miles back. But they drew a map on a napkin. Danny is holding it, the paper limp from sweat. The moon reflects off a white post: mile marker eight. Chelsey eases to the side of the road. This is it. Chelsey makes out an old, rusted gate marking the entrance. From there, it is about a mile trek. "I want you to wait in the car."

Danny sighs. "No—" Barking nearby rends his refusal. "What is that? Wolves?"

"Dogs," Chelsey says. Wolves don't bark. Not like dogs. They make a huffing noise. Plus, wolves have been extinct on the peninsula since the early 1900s, killed by farmers because they threatened livestock. "I can't have you come with me. You're a liability. And I need someone on the radio." She flicks it on, relieved the scanner still works. "If I'm not back within an hour, you drive away and call for help." It is not the best plan. But it is the only plan. She shows him how to work the radio.

Danny takes the radio and pinches his lips together. "One hour." He glances at her, a plea in his gaze. Please bring Ellie back.

"One hour," Chelsey confirms. She exits the car, closing her door with a barely audible click. She pops the trunk and fishes out zip ties and a hunting rifle, tucking them away on her body, keeping her hands free. She rounds the car again and nods at Danny once before slipping into the woods.

The air smells like wet dirt, and it is cold against her hot cheeks. Ferns and salmonberry tickle her ankles. She waits a half second and tips her head to the canopy, to the starless sky. It is so familiar here. A second home. She understands this land, has stroked its boulders and bark, skirted her fingers against its unforgiving underbelly. Shoulders tight, she lowers her body and creeps forward in a crouch, keeping to the right-hand side of the road, using the brush as cover.

She inhales. Exhales. The natural scents beginning to mingle with the unnatural—campfire, rot, decay. Up ahead, the road widens and splits, a pair of dark wings opening. Concrete buildings, suffocating in ivy, rise from the dirt-packed earth. Each structure radiates a hostile energy—meant for fear, for destruction, to kill. Garbage piles dot the landscape, stink oozing from them. There's a crumbling wall made of concrete blocks. Her stomach squeezes, and adrenaline somersaults through her veins. She assumes at least Doug and West are on the compound. But there could be more. Chelsey could be walking into an ambush. Ellie might already be dead. She shakes off the panic. The chill creeping up her spine.

How to proceed? Chelsey calculates the best route. Wind rustles the trees, and surfing on it, a moan. A female whimper. Chelsey's muscles tighten, ready to run. But no. She cautions herself. Hears her father as they army crawl through the brush toward a doe and her fawn. Don't give up the advantage of surprise. Wait for it. Listen. Another cry. From the east, Chelsey surmises.

She circles a building sunken halfway into the ground, chasing the thread of that whimper. The windows are barred, and a horrific stench rises from them. Beyond that is a row of kennels. The shape of dogs crouching, baring their teeth, gnawing at the metal bars of their cages. One of the kennel doors is open. The paw prints outside the kennel are fresh. She lopes past the dogs to a blank patch of concrete wall and peers around the corner.

Three girls huddle together, a sad, quivering lump in the dirt illuminated by moonlight. But also a beacon to Chelsey. She recognizes Ellie. Her ratty hair, that oversized jacket. Above them, two men rising like giants. One holds a gun, a red bandana covering his face. She recognizes the firearm. Police issued. Doug Abbott, then. The other is West. The years show on his body—fleshier, saggier.

She cocks her rifle and steps into the clearing, keeping Doug and West in her lens. "Coldwell PD. On the ground," she yells over the barking. The dogs are wild now. Slamming their bodies against the kennels.

West raises his arms; Doug, too, gun still in hand. "Chelsey Calhoun," Doug says. His eyes are wide, spooked. "How'd you find us?"

She edges forward. "I'd love to tell you, Doug. Why don't you put the gun down, and we'll talk about it?"

"You told me no one would ever find out," Doug addresses his brother, a tremor in his voice. "Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. You promised." He yanks the bandana down, visibly heaving, then puts his hands to his knees, gun jangling in his palm.

West snorts. "Get a grip, Dougy." His hands are still up but loose, unconcerned. "Look around. There's no one with her. She's alone. Kill her."

Doug straightens, body inflating with hope. "That true? You here without backup?"

The girls huddle closer together, bodies and eyes squeezed tight.

Chelsey's hands are shaking terribly, but she keeps her voice even. A drop of sweat falls into her eyelashes, and she blinks it away. "You going to do your brother's dirty work, Doug? Is that what you've been doing this whole time? Catching girls for him, disposing of the bodies? I bet you're like one of those dogs in the cages, aren't you? Can't think for yourself?"

"I'm not like him," Doug explodes. "Tell her," he speaks to the girls. "I fed you on the bus. I never touched you."

The girls stay put, lost in a haze of terror.

"I believe you." Chelsey creeps forward a little more. "Give me the gun, and we'll talk about it," she croons. "Would you like to see your dad? I can make sure you do."

"Kill her," West commands. "She's lying. All women lie. She's just like Mom. Promising you one thing then doing another."

It happens so fast. A blur of motion. West drops his arms, pushing Doug forward, and at the same time, Doug raises his, gun in hand.

Boom.

Birds startle from the trees. The girls scream. The dogs howl. Chelsey's ears ring, and when she comes to, Doug is face down on the ground, blood pooling around him—dark red, thick, steam rising.

West's lip lifts in a sneer. "You're going to pay for that, you bitch!" He charges Chelsey, and she fires off a shot. Her heart drops as she misses. It clips West's arm and lodges in a concrete tower. She aims again, but too late.

West plows into Chelsey, pinning her beneath him. Her rifle clatters to the ground, out of reach. His hands are around her throat, squeezing. Chelsey grips his wrists, but he is too strong.

Distantly, in some muted past, she hears her father's voice. Other cops throughout the years. How will you defend yourself against someone bigger, someone stronger, in hand-to-hand combat? Black edges her vision. Now is the time. She only has seconds, she understands, before passing out.

She releases his wrists and gouges his eyes with her thumbs. For one pulse, West loosens his hold, and Chelsey brings her knee up into his groin. He doubles over, and Chelsey claws her way from underneath him. Oxygen coming as if through a pinhole. She emits a strange whistling sound as she rises to all fours. Saliva gathers and drops from her mouth. Chelsey peers at Ellie, eyes and throat burning. "Run," she grunts out.

"You fucking cunt." West is on the ground, on an elbow. Click. He has Doug's gun aimed at Chelsey.

"Go," Chelsey chokes out to Ellie, pain searing her throat. "Go."

Ellie just shakes her head. All three girls are still paralyzed.

A low growl coasts across the compound, and a dog appears at the tree line, hackles raised, teeth bared. West laughs, full-bellied. "This is perfect. I'm going to let it eat you." Chelsey clocks the distance to her rifle. Ten feet. She scrambles for it just as West sticks two fingers in his mouth and blows. The whistle is high-pitched. A savage call to arms. The dogs in the kennel bay, then whine. Rabid to do their master's command.

But the free dog stays. Chelsey grips the rifle. West raises his gun again.

Ellie shudders, hugs Willa a little tighter. She props her chin on Willa's shoulder and stares at the free dog. "Star," she whispers, then whistles low, the sound soft like the final words of a lullaby.

Like a crack of lightning, the dog jumps and tears at West's arm holding the gun. Shredding flesh from the bone. West shouts, a combination of pain and outrage. He thrashes, gun sliding out of reach while he tries to dislodge the canine.

Shaking wildly, Chelsey rises to her feet and staggers to West. The dog is still in a frenzy, gnawing at West, who is curled in a ball. Chelsey raises the butt of her rifle, hitting West square in his temple. He goes limp.

The dog ceases, backs up, whines, then lopes away into the forest. Chelsey kicks the gun far from West, then drops to her knees. Feels his neck. Still a faint pulse. She wheezes and takes the zip ties from her back pocket. She rattles off his Miranda rights, although she is certain he does not hear. She feels disconnected from her body. Floating. Calm. She zip-ties West's hands. His ankles. Thinks about how small he looks now. How weak.

Rifle still in hand, she checks Doug. Nothing. Gone as the leaves in fall. She steals his bandana and wraps it around West's arm to staunch the bleeding. She wants him alive.

That done, she approaches the girls. They tremble and hold one another, lost in fear, begging for asylum.

"Hey," she says, soft and slow. The sudden calm is unnerving. "I'm going to get you out of here." Shaking and moaning. All of them are still terrified, still trapped in their memories, lost in this hellscape. "Come on now." She gentles her voice even more. It hurts to speak. Hurts more to look at all of this. The carnage. What one human can do to another. Vaguely, Chelsey understands this will be something she will never get over. It will follow her. This ghost, a new haunting. As long as these girls have demons, Chelsey will too. Ellie begins to rise, stiffness in every inch of her body. Then another girl. Chelsey recognizes her. Hannah Johnson. Beaten and bloody but breathing. And last, Willa, who clings to Ellie's hand. All of them here, standing, makes Chelsey want to drop to her knees and weep. She found them. She found them.

A door slams, the sound echoing, bouncing off the trees. Chelsey whips around as a slim, lithe figure darts into the woods. "Who's that? Another girl?" she asks.

"She's not one of us," Hannah says, words dropping from her mouth like acid. "That's Serendipity. She's with them."

Chelsey inhales. Could it be Annie? The third Abbott child? She wipes wetness from her upper lip. Blood comes away. Her face is numb. Her nose might be broken. "Got it." Chelsey grips her rifle. "Wait here," she instructs the girls. She sprints away, body aching, every muscle protesting. By sheer force of will, Chelsey continues on.

The woman leaves an obvious path of trampled brush for Chelsey to follow. She catches up to her near a creek. "Stop," she shouts over the rushing water and cocks her rifle. "Stop!" Chelsey screams. Adrenaline courses through her veins. One last charge. That is all that is left in Chelsey before she shatters. Already, she can feel herself coming apart. Ready to disintegrate into nothing.

The woman keeps running. Thirty seconds and she'll be in the trees and harder to track. Chelsey has no choice. She cocks her rifle. Presses the trigger. A third shot cleaves the night. She sees the woman's left leg buckle, then watches her fall emitting a grunt of pain.

Chelsey stomps through the creek, cold water soaking up to her knees, shocking her even more awake. She's no longer numb; she's aware of the pain in her body, like a vise is tightening each limb. "Hands on the ground," she barks. She can't see the woman's face; it is obscured by limp, blond hair. The woman places her hands flat, fingers digging in the dirt. Chelsey starts to read the woman her Miranda rights. "You have the right to remain silent." The woman begins to tremble. Chelsey whips zip ties from her back pocket. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney—" Up above, the thump of a helicopter can be heard. Danny must have called the police.

Chelsey kneels. The woman lifts her chin, and Chesley goes slack—dark brown eyes, straight eyebrows, a sculpted nose. Fair hair. Milk skin.

Surprise dusts the woman's features. "Fox face," she says to Chelsey, and the truth registers, locks into place as sure and swift as a deadbolt.

Not Annie but Lydia. Aged fifteen years. Resurrected. Her long-lost sister. Not a victim but a captor. Alive.