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No, not Anton’s ashes. Patrice’s. As I race for the steps, I kick the damn box out of my way. Patrice’s cremains scatter, and I feel a surge of vindictive satisfaction.

I reach the steps. Patrice is right behind me. I’m on the stairs, sprinting up—

Patrice grabs my foot and heaves, and I fall, my chin hitting the step so hard I bite my tongue, and blood fills my mouth. Dazed, I try to scramble up, but she slams my injured hand into the step. Then she has her fingers in my hair, and she’s pressing my throat against the step edge, cutting off my breath. I flail… and there’s a smack as the steak knife slaps the stair.

I’m holding a fucking knife.

I jam the blade backward. I don’t know what I hit. I only care that Patrice screams and releases me.

I scrabble up the stairs and slam the door and lean against it. Patrice pounds on the door, but I have it shut. For now.

I just need a moment. Blood fills my mouth, and my hand blazes with pain, and I just need a moment.

As I heave breath, I map out my escape. My phone is…

Where is my phone?

Holy shit. I can’t remember where I left it.

I should have grabbed Cirillo’s.

Off his headless corpse?

Forget the phone. What the hell am I going to do with it anyway? Notify the cops and then sit in the living room and wait for them to arrive? Even the time it takes me to call will be too much.

I need to get as far from this house as possible.

Get someplace safe and then summon help.

Just go. That’s all I can do. Get out the front door—

No, the front door is both locked and bolted. The back door is unlocked. That’ll be faster.

As I flex my stockinged feet, I remember Shania talking about Cirillo wearing his shoes inside. Really wish I’d done the same. I reach down to pull off my socks.

Patrice still pounds at the door, but I pay her no mind. Maybe she’s right that I’m a little “off.” A little too hyperfocused. Doesn’t matter. I can ignore her pounding and screaming as I wiggle my toes and direct my attention toward the back door.

I plan my route. Out the door. Onto the patio. Turn left. Get out of the garden. Head down the road. Mrs. Kilmer—

My brain stutters as I remember Brodie. I push that aside.

Mrs. Kilmer’s house is the first one. Do I stop there or continue to town? I’ll figure that out on the way.

My bare feet grip the floor and propel me along. The basementdoor swings open behind me. Running footsteps follow. Then a curse and a yelp, as one of her feet slides on the hardwood.

At the door. Twist the knob. Yank it open. Race out—

I run straight into a cloud of midges thicker than fog.

That’s not natural. No one can tell me this is natural.

Doesn’t matter. I know the way. I turn left and count off my paces, estimating when I can turn left again—

My foot hits something soft and solid, and I nearly fly over whatever blocks my path. I manage to grab the side of the house for balance, and I’m staggering over the obstacle, ready to keep going when I see what looks like an outstretched hand, barely visible through the swarming bugs.

There’s a body on the garden path.

It’s Jin.