He smiled grimly. He’d show her warm. He’d put her hand in the fire and hold it there until it was reduced to ashes. She’d probably pass out, but it’d be a nice reminder of who was boss when she woke up.
He couldn’t imagine she’d fight him after that.
Stepping very quietly onto the porch, he peered through the window. Sure enough, she was sleeping in front of the fire. He could see her all bundled up in the blankets he’d used to bury her in the closet.
This would be easy.
He put his hand on the door. It was locked. But that just made him smile even wider. Because he had the key.
Madeline was finally warm. And the feeling had come back to her hands and feet, although they were still swollen. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since Ray drove off, but she hadn’t heard a sound since. Now she was almost too comfortable. Exhaustion weighed so heavily upon her that she could hardly keep her eyes open. She’d been battling sleep for what seemed like an eternity.
Maybe Ray had really left. Maybe he wasn’t coming back.
Hang on. Stay vigilant, she told herself. But she had to rest.
She checked the bundle she’d arranged by the fire to make sure it looked convincing and began to slouch against the wall. But then she heard a slight creak and the doorknob near her head turned very slowly, very quietly.
Suddenly alert, she pulled her legs into her body and huddled closer to the wall. Her skin crawled as she sensed Ray peeking in the window on the other side of the door. Holding her breath, she hoped he saw her decoy—and the collar she’d tossed to the side of it. The position of that collar was her message to him. She would never allow him to control her. She’d fight and win, or she’d die trying.
Would he be fooled by the scene she’d set up? She had no idea—but guessed he was when she heard him insert the key in the lock.
The moment of truth had come. Licking her dry, cracked lips, she slid very slowly up the wall until she was standing at her full height. Then she lifted the ax over her head.
He cracked open the door and carefully pushed it inward, toward her. She could smell Ray. The scent of his clothes, his body, made nausea roil in her stomach. Briefly, she closed her eyes and offered a prayer for strength. But he wasn’t coming in as decisively as she’d expected.
Move, you son of a bitch! Her plan depended on it. I’m right in front of the fire. See that? Go for what you want…
The door separated them. She couldn’t attack him until he cleared it. But he was being so cautious!
Bending silently, she pulled the fishing line she’d found on the mantle and tied to the bottom blanket of her make-believe person. She knew he’d seen it move when she heard the quick intake of his breath. Finally, he came in, quickly and with purpose, and the other fishing line she’d strung caught him across the ankles.
He fought falling—didn’t immediately topple over as she’d pictured in her mind. But her little trap sent him off balance enough that she was able to step out from behind the door and swing the ax before he even knew she was there.
He cried out when the blade slashed into what she thought was his shoulder and jerked back so hard it yanked the handle right out of her hands. Her hesitancy to actually strike someone with a weapon like that had made her weak. She felt him swipe at her in the next instant and cut her with something—a knife? It had to be. The cut wasn’t deep, and was only on her forearm, but it stung and bled and the violence curdled her blood.
She wanted it to be over. But her blow didn’t incapacitate him. He was screaming and cursing and stumbling around, trying to pull the ax out of his shoulder with one hand while clutching at her with the other.
When she managed to avoid his grasp, he fell to one knee and worked the ax free. She guessed he was bleeding pretty badly, but she couldn’t see much in the shadowy room and was glad to be spared the visual results of her actions. He raised the ax as if he’d strike her with it, but she grabbed it at the same time. She couldn’t let him have the weapon.
They wrestled for it, each grabbing and pulling, groaning and cursing. His injury was much worse than hers, however, and she could feel him losing strength and balance, fading, slowing like a wind-up toy running out of torque. He was probably losing a lot of blood. She couldn’t believe he was still alive.
Eventually, she wrenched the ax away from him. When she did, he glared up at her with eyes that seemed to glow with hatred.
“You won’t win,” she said. “I’ll destroy you, if I have to.”
He gave an odd, bitter laugh. “You can’t destroy me. Your father already did that.”
“What did my father ever do to you?”
When he spoke, his voice was emotionless. “He made me crave my own daughter.”
“No!” she said, recoiling. “He would never do that.”
“He did, and more. Just ask Grace. If I know your father, he raped her. Over and over.”
Madeline was shaking again. Ray was trying to gain the upper hand any way he could—wasn’t he? She’d decided he was the one who’d owned that suitcase in the Cadillac. He was the one who’d confessed to her father. Her father was going to turn him in, but—
Suddenly, Grace’s chalk-white face when she saw her panties on that table in the police station appeared in Madeline’s mind. Grace claimed she’d never been molested. But she wouldn’t have kept quiet for Ray.
She would only lie to protect her family.
Hunter had been right all along. Her father, the beloved pastor of the Purity Church of Christ, had been a pedophile, the worst of sinners. And the Montgomerys had killed him.
Ray had fallen to the floor and was clutching his shoulder, moaning.
“Who was he, really?” she asked in bewilderment.
She didn’t expect an answer. He was in too much agony. But he managed one, anyway. “The most selfish man…I’ve ever known.” He cursed, then sucked in a deep, audible breath. “He…liked ‘em young. ‘Bout twelve or so. But…Katie and Rose Lee were just playthings. Grace…he loved.”
Madeline winced at the memory of the words her father had written in the margins of his Bible. He’d praised Grace’s beauty and innocence and talked about how much he loved her. Under the circumstances, Madeline couldn’t help interpreting those words differently than she ever had before. Sickened, she covered her face. She didn’t want to hear any more. “Give me your keys.”
He didn’t respond.