The lesson is pounded into her brain like his fist into the pulpit. Everyone after death is called to account for their actions in life, and Deborah’s no exception to the rule.
This thought makes her queasy.
She slams the Bible shut and puts her head in her hands, and with a deep sigh, Deborah is now well aware of what she must do. She must reach out to the only person who witnessed what happened that night.
PART ONE
DEBORAH
CHAPTER 1
Deborah
A few weeks later, Deborah’s trying to enjoy her nighttime ritual of sipping a cup of chamomile tea before bed.
Though it usually comforts her, especially during wintertime, she’s restless and fidgeting, kneading her fingers in her lap, where a second envelope that arrived today now rests innocently enough.
She gazes at the nightstand, where the sheet of pale yellow peeks out from the unsealed flap, the words committed to memory. Removing it would only risk tearing the flimsy paper. Eventually, other mail got piled on top of it, and indecisive, Deborah did nothing. It’s not like she forgot what it contained—or her guilty conscience.
She slides on her reading glasses. This envelope also has no return address and is thicker, with more pages and further proof, enough details to dredge up the past and cause problems. Stunning details, full of particulars she thought were known only by a small group of people.
Most of whom are dead.
The scratches across the page appear rushed, as if the writer had limited time to collect their thoughts. Even though there are discrepancies between the shaky scribbles and Deborah’s recollection, she doesn’t need to memorize this letter because she was physically present, though mentally checked out.
Besides, the permanent imprint tattooed on her brain never fades.
Engrossed in forming a response, Deborah ignores a sharp scraping noise that pierces the silence until she’s interrupted by a loud thump. Assuming it’s an overgrown tree branch rasping the house, she doesn’t bother to stand.
Out loud, she expresses her reply and continues to talk to herself. But Deborah halts midsentence when she hears the pitter-patter of footsteps moving across the wraparound porch.
She crawls out of bed and noiselessly tiptoes to the dark living room.
Startled by a melody, Deborah slams into the wall as the old grandfather clock chimes four times, signaling the top of the hour. Then, rubbing her sore elbow, she stands directly in front of the roman numerals, squinting at the glass-and-mahogany display.
It’s far too late and cold for peddling beauty products or selling magazine subscriptions. Ever since they built a men’s prison outside town, Deborah’s not keen on unexpected visitors.
On edge, she moves into the kitchen to flick on the outside light.
The howling wind has a ferocious intensity, and Deborah narrows her eyes at the frost-covered gauge of the outside thermometer, which indicates it’s a mere three degrees.
Her night vision has never been the best, and it’s only gotten worse with age. Objects far away tend to blur and move in and out of focus, and she could swear a dark form jets across the snow-covered porch of the old farmhouse as she stares hard into the pitch black. Deborah hasn’t been outside since earlier when she got the mail, and it’s snowed at least five inches since then, which is why her heart thuds in her chest at the fresh tracks in the snowy ground.
Nervously, she jiggles the door handle to confirm it’s locked.
Swallowing hard, she wonders why she’s stayed out here, all alone, for all these years.
“I have protection,” Deborah says out loud. “I have a gun.”
Then, in the walk-in pantry, she bundles up in a scarf and coat and quickly laces up her snow boots. Groaning at the weight of the old Winchester rifle locked in the gun closet, she realizes she’s forgotten how heavy it is against her tiny stature.
Cautiously, she unlocks both the dead bolt and the damaged screen door, the netting frayed and torn. Her teeth chatter as soon as the icy blast hits her face. With the heavy and unyielding gun slung haphazardly over her shoulder, Deborah steps outside into the cold temperatures.
The wind makes it impossible to catch her breath, and Deborah gasps for air. She inhales a lungful of arctic chill, and as it slides down her throat, it’s as if she’s swallowed a block of ice.
As she walks the perimeter of the porch, an explosion in the direction of the barn jolts her.
After slipping on the ice-covered snow, Deborah tries to steady herself by grabbing a corner piece of siding, except the board is loose, and a single yank pulls it directly off the house. A wind gust picks up at the same time, and without anything to latch on to, Deborah’s thrust forward and drops the board.
Deborah’s shrieks are carried away in the draft as she meets the slippery ice head on. The rifle escapes from her clutch and tumbles to the ground. Luckily, the snow pads her fall, but only enough to act as an ice pack against her immediately bruised face and knees.
Mumbling “Ouch,” Deborah notices dark-red blood seeping from her knuckles.
Dazed, she clenches the powdery substance in her hands until a black figure appears out of the shadows.
Assuming it’s Esmeralda, Deborah calls out to her, expecting paw prints to dart across the porch, light and effortless, accompanied by a purring sound. But the footfalls coming closer are weighty and forceful, like a person’s.
“Esmeralda,” she moans, staring at her outstretched arms. Then she watches in horror as the snow-covered feet stop in front of her motionless body.
Frantic, she glances over her shoulder for the rifle, her eyes darting uselessly across the whiteout conditions.
Resignedly, Deborah levels her gaze with dark pants, then moves her eyes toward the torso, also clothed in black. When she reaches the stranger’s face, Deborah lifts her chin in defiance, but she’s disappointed to see a mask covering their features, the only exception the
