Page 118 of The Premonition at Withers Farm

Maynard shot her a look. “I thought you were gone. I didn’t know you were in the chicken coop of all places!”

“Is that your kit in the coop?” Molly had to know now. She had to know everything.

Maynard raised an eyebrow. “What? That crate with duct tape and such? It’s still in there?”

She nodded.

He waved her off. “I wouldn’t call it a kit. After Tamera, I considered ... well, sometimes a person has a monster inside, and when it wakes up, it’s hard to put back to sleep.”

“Maynard,” Molly said, internally breathing a prayer, “you need to let me go.”

He laughed. “What, so you can tell everyone everything?”

Molly didn’t reply. She didn’t know how to.

Maynard rubbed his eyes, defeat sagging his shoulders. “Ah, Molly, maybe we just end it all here, yes? The two of us. And Tamera.” His eyes shifted to the barrel. “Just be done with living. It’s not worth it anyway, is it? To live? All the darkness in the world. The beasts that live inside us. There’s no redemption.”

“But there is.” Molly was experiencing it herself—the first glimmers of healing. The life that God could bring outside of the death that inevitably wielded its way through life. “We’re just broken,” she added.

“Ha!” Maynard wagged his finger at her. “There you are right, kiddo. Wearebroken. I saw her die.”

His statement brought the memory of the day of the fire rushing back to her. She’d heard him. Heard him claim it. Heard the pride-like tone of his voice. He’d seen January die. He’d seen Tamera die. And he’d liked it.

There was a scuffle in the basement outside the crawl space.

A muffled shout.

Maynard’s eyes turned wild. “Shut up!” He glared at Molly, his expression demanding she not make a sound.

She noted he carried no weapons, none that she could see anyway. He had nothing that could harm her—outside of his willingness to hurt others. A grossly hardened soul and a lineage of violent stories.

She, on the other hand, had hope. And for the first time, Molly claimed it.

Perliett

She heard the front door crack as whoever was kicking against it finally won. She saw her mother’s face crumple in hurt and betrayal. She witnessed Jasper Bridgers turn his back to her and soothe Maribeth with the ignorant confidence of a man who was comfortable turning deceit into truth when it fit his needs. She felt arms grip her as her knees buckled, then swing her up awkwardly—because no man could carry a woman of any size with ease. This Perliett knew.

Stumbling into the parlor, George dropped her as gently as he could on the sofa. He kneeled in front of her, searching her for new wounds.

“You are mad,” he scolded, lifting her hands and examining her wrists. He ran his fingers up her arms to her neck. “Your face is all scraped.”

“It was the corn. George...” Perliett pushed away his hands and reached for his shoulders, taking them urgently. “Alden. The handyman. He—”

“I know. He was already dead when I came upon him and Mrs. Withers.”

“And the girl?”

George frowned. “Yes. The girl. Who is she? How have we never seen her before in a place this small?”

“They’ve hidden her. Jacqueline. She is Mrs. Withers’s daughter.”

George’s only expression was the raising of his eyebrows. “And she was in the cornfield when you were—”

“Yes.” Perliett sucked in a sob.

“You believe it was Alden who did this to you?”

Perliett nodded repeatedly, choking on her tears and coughing.