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Chapter 13

Elizabeth

My inactivity chafed me. Martha mothered me with juices and aspirin and antibiotics and cough syrup, but now that I could breathe again without feeling as though my lungs were being ripped from me, I longed to be out of bed. A blue jay chattered raucously in the branches of the magnolia outside my window, and the dance of light through the curtain invited me outside, into the warmth of the April day.

I tossed the covers aside impatiently and slipped from the bed, intending to throw open the window and let the fresh breeze play through my room. I found to my dismay that I had barely the strength to make it to the chair. I curled into the wing chair, out of breath, and let my gaze wander idly over the valley below. The view never failed to calm me. Soon I was breathing normally and had regained at least a semblance of composure.

My attention was drawn to the bare spot on the wall. Where was the painting? I still had no idea why or when it had been removed, but I now knew that David must have hung it there after . . . after what?

Frustration welled within me. After all this time, I still did not know.

Tapping lightly on the door to announce herself, Martha came into my room wearing a grim expression on her normally pleasant face.

"Well, young lady, I see you're up again."

I had to smile at her. "Why, Martha, that frown seems unusually severe. Surely it's not caused by my merely walking across the room."

She brought my robe to me and helped me work my arms into it. "You're right," she said. "It isn't. You have a visitor. Do you want to get back into bed, or do you want to sit here while you talk to him?"

Her tone told me I wasn't going to enjoy the visit.

"Who is it?"

"Stanley McCollum."

"Oh, lord, what's he doing here?" I wasn't sure if I was up to dueling with him. "I'll sit here."

She took a blanket from the bed and tucked it around my feet.

"I suppose there's no way I can get out of seeing him, is there?"

"No, there isn't," he said from the doorway.

Martha gave a final tug at the blanket and stepped to one side.

"I'll see Miss Richards alone."

She looked toward me, anger flashing in her eyes, but I gave her a hesitant smile and nodded toward the door. She glared at McCollum but walked stiffly from the room, leaving the door open.

"Well, Mr. McCollum." I spoke as coldly as he had, having trouble repressing my own anger at the way he ordered Martha and me around. "This is certainly . . . unexpected."

"So you do recognize me?"

My hopes for a quick meeting were dashed by his undisguised animosity. Preparing for battle, I smiled sweetly and said in my most saccharine voice, "How could I ever forget your many kindnesses to me?"

"Including keeping you at death's door while denying you medical attention?"

I stared at him dumbly. "What are you talking about?"

"Young lady, I do not appreciate having my professional reputation bandied about this county by an impertinent interloper like you."

I found my voice. "I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about. I have not been out of this house for days, and I have never discussed you, or my opinion of you, anywhere other than on this hill."

He was paler than usual, his lips white and drawn with the effort of controlling his anger. "I don't know what your game is," he said, "but you're on the wrong track if you think you can play on John Richards's sympathy. I still control the trust."

I was suddenly very tired of this man. I wanted only for him to leave so that I could crawl back into my bed and sleep. I kept my voice as measured as I could. "I haven't seen my illustrious cousin since the day of Marie LeFlore's funeral, and I am sure that by now you know every word that was said between us."

He leaned over me, his face so close his breath puffed against my mouth. "Are you denying that you called him late in the afternoon last week telling him that I wouldn't let you go to the hospital, that you had him bring a doctor to this house to treat you, and that you kept the two of them here until well into the next morning?"

The rage in his voice was like a physical force, pushing me back into the chair. What was he saying? The doctor—yes, I remembered the doctor. But John? Fragments of half-forgotten dreams crowded my vision. I couldn't deal with them with McCollum at the same time. I forced my words out. "I think you'd better leave now."

He stayed crouched over me, staring into my eyes, his voice low and frighteningly calm. "I have much more experience in this kind of thing than you do. You can't win. Before I'm through with you, you'll regret ever coming to Richards Spur."

I fought down the urge to strike out at him, but with that my control failed. "Martha!" My voice cracked, and I called out again. "Martha!"

I heard her footsteps in the hall as McCollum straightened away from me, a gleam of satisfaction lighting his eyes. He met Martha at the doorway. "I believe Miss Richards is not quite as well as she thought," he said as he left the room.

Martha helped me to the bed. I wanted to sleep, to close myself off from what McCollum had said, from the questions he raised, but the memories of that night tormented me. What was real and what was imagined? David. Surely it had been David.

With a moan I beat my fist into the pillow. It couldn't have been John. I couldn't have mistaken them.

 

Joannie arrived the next morning, helped upstairs by Mack, and settled in with her knitting surrounding her and her crutches nearby. I was selfishly glad to have her with me, but I had to voice my surprised at her being there.

"Oh, I made sure that you're not contagious before I came," she said. "There's no reason for me not to be here."

It wasn't the answer I had expected. Without thinking, I stammered, "When you wouldn't come with Mack before, I thought it was because you'd heard the stories about the house and were afraid to be inside it."

Her eyes misted over, and she stared blankly at the afghan in her lap. When she spoke it was as though it took all of her courage to do so. "Elizabeth, your house is not haunted for me. It has no ghosts except those I bring with me."

Then, as though she had said, and felt, far too much, she shook her head angrily. She looked up at me, and with a brittle smile said, "Mack says we're going to have an exceptionally good peach crop this year."

We talked for several minutes about unimportant things before the edge left her voice and I recognized the Joannie I had met before. Soon, however, we were gossiping like two schoolgirls, about her baby, my plans for the house, and Mack. She always brought the conversation back to Mack, and I envied her the glow in her eyes when she talked about him.

While we talked, I shrugged into my robe and climbed out of bed. I felt too good to be confined beneath quilts.

Joannie looked at me in concern. "You shouldn't be up," she said quite seriously. "Aunt Martha said I was to keep you in bed, no matter what you said."

I grinned at the mental picture of Joannie trying to keep me down against my will, but, in compromise, I settled on the foot of the bed with my arm resting on the carved footboard.

"How's this?" I asked.

Joannie grinned back, then said in a mock whisper, "I won't tell on you."

I don't know who giggled first, but the strain had lasted too long, and the situation was ludicrous. Soon I was doubled over, holding my side against the laughter. Whenever I thought I'd almost controlled myself, I looked at her, trying so valiantly to bring herself under control, and we were off again.

The voice from the doorway silenced me. "Well, Cousin, is it a joke you can share?"

John leaned against the doorjamb with a small package tucked under one arm and a half smile lingering about his mouth.

Joannie choked back a giggle. "Mr. Richards," she said in soft surprise.

"Hello, Joannie." He walked to her chair and took her hand. "It's good to see you again."

"It's good to see you, too," she said gently.

I watched the two of them, confused. Neither Martha nor Mack thought well of John, but it was obvious that Joannie didn't share their opinion.

When John turned to me, though, still smiling that half smile, my confusion turned to embarrassment. I felt what little color I had drain from my face. What had happened that night?

He held the package toward me, and it was a moment before I could take it, or speak. When I did, my voice betrayed me.

"Candy for the sickroom, Cousin?" I tried to quip. "Somehow it doesn't seem your style."

"Gentle and lovable as always," John said. "I can tell you're well on the way to recovery."

"If you two will excuse me . . ." Joannie had gathered her crutches and was struggling to her feet.

I looked at her in dismay. She couldn't leave me alone with him!

It was John who spoke. "You don't have to leave."

"I think I should," she said to him before turning to me. "I'm a little tired. If you don't mind, I'd like to go to Aunt Martha's room and . . . and lie down for a while."

There was a drawn look about her mouth I hadn't noticed before. "Of course," I told her. "Do you need any help?"

She shook her head. "I'll go down the back stairs. I can find my way."

We watched her leave the room and listened until the sound of her steps died away. Then John said something I thought very strange. "I'm glad the two of you found each other. She needs someone like you."

I started to ask him what he meant, but he took the wing chair, pulled it over to the bed, and plopped himself down in it with a satisfied smile.

"Martha let you come upstairs alone?" I asked.

"Reluctantly, but she had some problem in the kitchen. She's quite a guardian, you know."

"I know—"

"Aren't you going to open your candy?" he asked, interrupting me. "It's the height of bad manners not to offer to share."

Maybe, just maybe, this interview wasn't going to be too bad after all. Perhaps I'd been worrying for no reason. But my fingers trembled as I tore at the paper wrapping.

"I suppose you're going to want the one wrapped in gold paper." The words squeaked out, but with any luck he would blame that on my still sore throat.

"Only expensive assortments rate gold paper, Cousin. I'll take anything you give me."

I ripped the paper off. At first I couldn't think of anything to say. He'd brought me a twelve-ounce box of dime store chocolate-covered cherries. Unable to repress a chuckle, I turned to him, one eyebrow lifted slightly. "A token of your esteem?"

"One should give what one enjoys."

I tossed the unopened box to him. "I hope they squirt all over your jacket."

He threw it back at me. "You first."

I was caught up in the game. Without thinking, I joked with him, "You have no way of knowing, so I ought to warn you. When I was little I became addicted to these. I developed the ability to eat a whole box of them at one sitting. Without getting sick."

I pulled the lid off the box. "You may not get any of . . ."

The words died in my throat. I felt a band tighten around my chest, squeezing the breath from me. Inside the box, nestled in tissue and gleaming softly, lay a silver hairbrush. On its back a garland of flowers circled an ornate E.

"Martha told me about it," John said, no longer teasing.

I felt tears swimming in my eyes. I couldn't let myself cry now. Every time I turned around these days, I was crying. I tried to concentrate on something more relevant than an antique brush. When had Martha decided John worthy of her confidence? It did no good.

"Thank you," I choked out before the tears started. They streamed silently down my cheeks. Without knowing how I got there, I found myself in John's arms, my face against his chest. I realized where I was and tried to pull away, but he held me a moment longer, one hand pressed comfortingly across my back and the other moving through my hair.

"You need to be consistent, Cousin. I was trying to get used to the fact that you probably hated me. Now, each time I see you, you crumple my shirt."

His words were lightly spoken, but he might just as well have poured ice water on me. I stiffened in his arms. He released me and handed me the box of tissues from the nightstand.

I took a long time drying my eyes before I could look at him.

"Stanley McCollum told me you were here that night."

The change was barely perceptible, but I saw his jaw clench.

"Yes."

"I—I don't remember much of what happened," I said, but what I meant was, Please, please tell me nothing happened.

John's eyes were filled with questions I couldn't answer. "You didn't know any of us," he said slowly. "Tom—Dr. Carouthers—attributed it to delirium caused by your high fever."

I couldn't face him any longer. I picked up the brush and turned it over in my hands. "I see," I said lamely.

"I wish I did," he told me. And then, abruptly, his mood changed. "I have to leave now. Someone should check on Joannie. Do you want me to do that on my way out?"

"No," I said, still looking at the brush. "I will."

After he left, it was several minutes before I could even move. Finally, though, I put the brush in its rightful place on the dressing table, gathered up Joannie's forgotten knitting, and went to find her.

She stood near a window in Martha's bedroom staring vacantly into the room. Her face was oddly twisted, and her lower lip was caught between her teeth. A fallen crutch lay forgotten at her feet.

"Joannie?" I spoke softly, not wanting to startle her. "Are you all right?"

She turned toward me, but I don't think she saw me, at least not at first. She seemed almost to cower before me. "It's too much," she whimpered. "Too much."

What could have happened to her in just those few short minutes to cause this? I went to her and put my hand on her shoulder. "Joannie?"

She slid her free arm around me and held on to me tightly. I felt her breath coming in gasps. I had no idea what to do. The only thing I knew was that she needed comfort. I put my arms around her and held her until her breathing returned to normal, and when she released her grip, I eased away from her.

She attempted a smile. "Let's get out of here."

I handed her the fallen crutch and followed her from the room, something telling me to close the bedroom door as we left.

She lowered herself into the corner of Martha's couch and looked up at me, a pleading smile on her face. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Your ghosts?" I prompted as gently as I could.

She nodded, biting on her lower lip. "I thought they were gone. They're why Aunt Martha didn't want Mack or me to visit—because of the pain they bring—but it's been so long. I try not to think about them, and I can't talk about them—it hurts everyone too much." She doubled her hands into fists and pressed them against her cheeks.

I took one of her hands in mine and sat beside her on the couch. Unclenching her fingers, she gripped mine.

"I stayed here once."

I started to speak, but she went on, looking past me at the closed door.

"I hid in that bedroom for almost three days."

"What—"

"Did you ever have the feeling that you ruined the only thing you ever loved? That you were never going to be allowed to be happy?"

"But you have Mack, and soon you're going to have your baby."

Her face softened. "I've always had Mack. I've known since I was a little bitty girl that when I grew up I was going to marry him and have his babies, and that we would love each other until we died of old age, and somehow, some way, Mack realized that, too." She was rigid again, staring at the ceiling. "But I may not be allowed to have his babies. I've lost three already. Mack doesn't even want to try anymore. He says that if I lose this one, there won't be another.

"Each time we'd think that finally we could have my leg fixed, there would be a pregnancy, and the delay because of it, and a miscarriage, and then the hospital bills, and always the pain, the loss. Mack says that he is going to see me walking again if it means that we never have children, but, Elizabeth, if I could just carry a baby full term, have a healthy, normal child, I'd wear these crutches forever. But I guess I can't make that kind of bargain, can I? If God lets it happen, it will happen.

"My stepfather—you know my stepfather."

I shook my head.

"Yes, you do. Aunt Martha warned me that he's back. She said you chased him off your property for trying to cut your pines."

That bloated face with its red-rimmed eyes glared at me from my memory. "Oh, Joannie, no." I couldn't stop the shudder that ran through me.

"You do know him. Things were never very good at home after mother married him. He drank a lot. I guess he still does. He and Jim, Aunt Martha's husband, were the closest things to friends either one of them had. They cut a little pulpwood together, traded a few cows, but mostly they spent their time in the beer joints in Fairview, sometimes alone, sometimes with women. The school isn't that big— the town isn't that big—I couldn't help hearing about it. I don't think mother ever knew. I know Aunt Martha didn't."

She gave a choking little laugh. "But it was going to be better. It was fall. I was a senior in high school. Mack was in college, at Stillwater, and working there, too. He'd already been notified that he'd been accepted to the College of Veterinary Medicine the following fall. We were going to be married that June, after I graduated.

"It was after school. I'd been out to feed the chickens. My stepfather was home. It was really strange for him to be home that time of day, but he was working on something in the corral. He called me over, and I climbed up on the corral fence and sat on the top rail talking to him."

Her eyes had that vacant look again, and I knew she was reliving what had happened.

"He had a steel fence post in his hands." Her fingers clenched in mine. "I don't know what I said, but he whirled around toward me. I've never seen a look like that on anyone's face. It was blind, unreasoning, animal. I saw him swing the post. I knew it was going to hit me, but I couldn't move. I could only watch as it came closer—

"I guess I fainted. I know I fell off the fence. The next thing I knew, I was in the house. He and my mother were arguing about whether to take me to the doctor or not. I know now that he was afraid he'd go to jail if anyone found out what he'd done, but he convinced her that it was just a broken leg and he knew enough about broken bones. He put a splint on it, and they put me to bed, but I guess I was too much trouble as an invalid because a few days later he came in from Fort Smith with a pair of crutches and told me it was time for me to get up.

"I wrote to Mack that I had broken my leg. He wanted to come home, but I told him that I was doing fine, for him to stay in school because it really wasn't that long until Christmas."

She beat against the arm of the couch with her free hand. "The closer it got to Christmas, the more I realized that I wasn't going to be healed by then, so when Mack called and told me that he'd been given an opportunity to earn some graduate credit by working over the holidays, I lied to him. It's the only time I've ever lied to Mack. I thought that surely by spring break I'd be back to normal. I told him I was doing fine. I told him that Uncle Frank was thinking about visiting his family in California—that was the truth—and that I'd really like to go with him.

"I know now that a fall from the height I fell won't break the tibia. I know now that a steel bar won't break the tibia unless it hits just right." She took a deep breath. "I know now that it takes six months for it to heal, and that if I had told Mack what had happened, when it happened, I probably would be walking today, but I was seventeen years old, and I was ashamed, and I was scared. I wanted to be perfect for him, and I didn't want to cause any trouble between him and my stepfather.

"Mack came home for spring break. He must have come in during the night, because he was at the house early that morning. My stepfather and Jim were sitting at the kitchen table. They'd been out all night, playing cards and drinking beer. Jim had had a lot of money the last few weeks, and they'd done their best to spend it. I was propped up against the sink, doing dishes, when Mack got there. The back door was open, and the screen wasn't latched. They hollered for him to come on in and at the same time yelled for me to get them some more beer.

"I twisted around on my crutches to look at Mack. He'd had to come inside before he could see me. He was just standing there, staring at me. They yelled again, and I started across the kitchen, dragging this—this leg, and I could feel Mack's eyes on me the whole distance. I wanted to sink through the floor.

"I didn't move fast enough. When I passed the table, my stepfather swore at me. He called me lazy and stupid and slow, and then he shoved me, and I lost my balance and fell.

"I heard Mack yell as I fell. He grabbed my stepfather and yanked him out of the chair and hit him, and hit him, and hit him. Mother heard the noise and came running into the kitchen, screaming at Mack to stop. Jim ran out the door. I heard his tires throwing gravel all the way out the drive. Mack just kept hitting my stepfather. And then he had him down on the floor, choking him, and hitting his head on the floor.

"I screamed at him to stop, not to kill him. He finally heard me, and he did stop. Mother was still screaming at him, beating on his back. He pushed her away and picked me up. He never said a word, just carried me out the door. My stepfather was still lying on the floor.

"Mack put me in his truck and drove off. He made me tell him what had happened. He swore at my stepfather for doing it, and at my mother for letting it happen, and at himself for not being there, and then he told me he was going to take me someplace where they couldn't find me and then go to the sheriff and make sure the man never hurt me again.

"He couldn't take me to Aunt Martha's because of Jim. He was afraid they'd search his place. Grannie was too old, and besides, Uncle Frank would have told Mother, so he brought me up here."

Joannie looked around the room, again aware of where she was.

"I thought of this place. It hadn't been closed up very long, only a few weeks. Mack didn't even know that no one lived here.

"The back door wasn't locked. Mack brought me up here, and then, because he said it might take a few hours to get things straightened out, he brought up a little firewood and a bucket of water and told me not to worry, because if he had to be gone very long he'd get in touch with Aunt Martha and make her swear not to tell Jim.

"Mack didn't find out until it was too late."

"Find out what?" I couldn't not ask.

"Do you know the big curve in the highway east of Fairview?"

I nodded.

"And the narrow bridge just east of there, the one with the high concrete abutments on each side of it?"

"Yes."

"I don't know where Jim was going when he left our house. It wasn't home; he was going in the wrong direction for that. They said he was probably doing eighty when he hit the bridge."

"Oh, my God."

"He didn't die right away," she said in a small voice. "Mack came upon the accident on his way into town. The ambulance had already left for Fort Smith, but the deputy was still there, and the wrecker, and Jim's car."

"Mack stopped to see if he could help." Joannie rubbed her hand across her eyes. "And the deputy arrested him."

"For what?" I gasped.

"For assault with intent to kill and kidnapping." I heard anger in her voice for the first time. "They put him in jail! Mack, who never hurt anything or anybody before in his life, was locked in jail!

"I should have known. There should have been something that told me when it happened."

Her voice lost its intensity. "He couldn't get in touch with Aunt Martha. She was in Fort Smith with Jim. He couldn't tell where I was, because I was still a minor, and my mother and her husband were there demanding that I be returned to them.

"They wouldn't let him post bond, because they knew he knew where I was.

"And I sat here in ignorance while he went through that.

"I'd been here a couple of hours when I heard a car drive up. I knew it was Mack, so I went to the window to call down to him. But it was only Stanley McCollum. I guess he came up here to check on things. And I remember thinking how angry he'd be if he found me in the house, so I looked for a place to hide. He was in the house for a long time, but he never came into this part. I heard him slam the back door when he left.

"It got a little cool, but I was afraid to light a fire in case he came back. I didn't want him to be able to smell the smoke.

"I didn't really worry until it started to get dark. We hadn't even thought about candles or lamps. I sat in the dark and knew that something horrible had happened to Mack."

She looked so lost. I squeezed her hand.

"And then I started remembering the stories I had heard about this house. They were fun to tell, when I was in school. We used to sneak up the road and peer over the wall, looking for shadows in the windows, and we'd make up stories about the colonel and why he haunted the house.

"They weren't fun when I was sitting here alone, and cold, and afraid. I started listening for noises, but the only thing I heard was my own heartbeat.

"If Mr. McCollum had come back the next day I would have screamed to him that I was here, but he didn't come back. When I realized it was getting dark again, I had to get out of here. If I had to walk all the way to Richards Spur, I had to get out of here. I got as far as the top of the stairs. I was shaking so hard, I dropped a crutch. I watched it slide down to the landing, and there wasn't anything I could do to get it back.

"By the next morning I was half crazy. I hadn't slept. I was out of water. I had pictured Mack dead or maimed so often I had even seen him as a ghost in this house. I knew that I was going to die, in that bedroom.

"When I did hear the noises, they were a part of my imaginings, at first, and then I realized that I was hearing footsteps. But by then I knew, I knew it was something bad coming. I backed as far away from the door as I could, into the corner, and when the door opened and I couldn't get away, I saw the colonel.

"I started screaming. I couldn't stop. I didn't stop until he shook me and said, 'Joannie, half the county is looking for you. What are you doing here?' And I knew he was John Richards and not the colonel, and then I started to cry.

"He held me and let me cry, and then he told me what happened.

"He built me a fire in here, and he got me some more water, and he told me he would help us, but he made me promise not to tell Mack or Aunt Martha that he had anything to do with it, because they wouldn't understand.

"Aunt Martha had told Grannie he had foreclosed on her and Jim, and I knew he was right about what they would think of him, so I never told them he was here.

"But I know he convinced the lawyer to represent Mack. He probably even paid him, even though the lawyer said he was doing it because he thought anyone who whipped my stepfather deserved a medal.

"And I know he was the reason my stepfather dropped charges and left the county, but I don't know whether he frightened him off or paid him to leave.

"And he probably talked Mr. McCollum into letting Aunt Martha live here.

"And he lent Mother the money to buy out Uncle Frank when he moved to California, but I think that was for Grannie more than Mother. She was so old, it would have killed her to move or to think about anyone other than family owning the store."

I had been staring at the floor, but when she said that I jerked my head up and turned to her. "Joannie, who is your grandmother?"

"My great-grandmother," she said. "Marie LeFlore."

I was speechless for a moment and then I choked on the question. "Louise Rustin is your mother?"

She looked at me in genuine surprise. "I thought you knew."

I found I was still holding her hand. I gave it a little squeeze as I shook my head.

"Maybe I shouldn't have told you, but I've never been able to tell it all the way through before, and you . . . you seem so sure of yourself, and you're not as close to it as we are. . . ." Her eyes pleaded with me. "I didn't impose on you, did I?"

"No, Joannie." How could I possibly say anything else? "You didn't impose."

She gave her head a little shake. "Mack had to quit school. He'll never be a vet, and that's what he wanted most in life."

"It sounds to me as though you are what he wants most in life," I told her.

"I hope so, because there's no way I can make up to him what he gave up." She smiled then, a wistful tremor. "I can only love him. As long as God lets me."

 

I lay awake long into the night. My thoughts flitted from Joannie, to Mack, to Louise and that horrible man she had married, to John. John, who had helped me with Marie, who had brought me the brush, who had held me . . . who even now I wanted to hold me. . . . John, who hated this house and all David had stood for. John, who had foreclosed on Martha and Jim. Martha had told me that, without actually saying the words. I wondered why I'd never heard her. But he had helped Joannie. Or had he only told her he would? What had she said? I know he did, even though . . . He probably . . .

I climbed out of bed and walked to the dressing table. The silver hairbrush gleamed in the moonlit room. I carried it to the bed and lay there, tracing the design on its back with my fingers.

In any event, he had effectively silenced Joannie. Why had he come to the house? It had been closed for weeks. What business did he have here? I remembered the jumble of boxes I found when I arrived. Some of them looked as though they had been searched, rapidly and not too carefully. Surely John wouldn't have had to prowl through the house's possessions. He had the key to the storeroom. He could have used it anytime he wanted.

Unless . . . unless that was the time he chose to use it, and he didn't have another opportunity. When had Martha come to live here? How long after Jim had died? Finally, exhausted by questions I didn't really want answered, I slept.

I was in an old overgrown orchard with Joannie. I was trying to help her escape, and we ran, hiding among the twisted, dying trees. I held on to her hand as we ran, but I tripped on a root and fell. When I reached for her, she was floating away from me. "I have to go," she said as she dissolved into the night. "I have to do this." Then I was alone except for the unknown menace that now stalked me. I ran blindly, not knowing which direction to take, losing my footing, stumbling forward, until I saw the wall. David stood by the wall with his arms outstretched, waiting for me. I ran toward him gladly, but when I reached him, I found that he was John, not David. The unknown force pursuing me grew closer. John's arms beckoned me, and I ran to him, seeking safety, but as he reached for me the voice overtook us, surrounded us—Owen's voice, his words echoing through the night, "There's no place for you to hide, Eliza. I'll find you wherever you are. He'll never have you."

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