MY HUSBAND THOUGHT ABANDONING ME AND OUR DAUGHTER IN THE FREEZING FOREST WOULD TEACH US A LESSON. HE DROVE AWAY LAUGHING, CERTAIN WE WOULD EVENTUALLY CRAWL BACK AND APOLOGIZE. BUT AFTER A NEAR COLLISION FORCED US OVER A GUARDRAIL, I PRESSED MY TERRIFIED DAUGHTER INTO THE MUD AND ORDERED HER NOT TO MOVE. THE ENGINE WENT SILENT. A CAR DOOR OPENED. THEN FOOTSTEPS STOPPED RIGHT ABOVE US. WHO HAD FOUND US IN THE DARK?

The strike hit Ray’s shoulder with a sickening, heavy CRACK.

The double-bitted axe edge sheared through the thick denim of his hunting coat and struck the heavy collarbone beneath. The sheer downward momentum of my drop from the rafters knocked him off his feet.

Ray let out a wet, strangled howl, his shotgun discharging uselessly into the oak floorboards.

BOOM!

The blast blew a jagged hole through the floor, sending a cloud of wood splinters and smoke swirling through the cramped shed. The halogen flashlight flew from his hand, tumbling across the room and coming to rest in the corner, its bright yellow beam pointing straight up at the ceiling.

Ray hit the floor hard on his back, writhing in pain, his right hand wildly clawing at his shattered shoulder.

"You bitch!" he screamed, his voice choked with blood and shock. "You crazy bitch!"

I didn't give him time to recover. I landed heavily beside him on my knees, the shock of the impact jarring through my bare, frozen left foot. I lunged for the shotgun lying on the floorboards between us, but Ray’s left arm shot out—a heavy, calloused fist catching me squarely across the jaw.

The world spun in a flash of blinding white light. I slammed sideways against the wooden tool crate, the taste of copper filling my mouth instantly.

Ray scrambled backward like a wounded animal, dragging his useless right arm, his left hand reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a heavy hunting knife with an eight-inch fixed blade, the steel flashing wickedly in the flashlight’s glare.

"I'll tear your throat out!" he roared, gasping for air, his face twisted in a mask of primal, agonizing rage.

He lunged toward me from his knees, raising the knife.

Out of the pitch-black shadows near the back wall, a dark shape moved with terrifying speed.

THWACK.

A six-foot-long, heavy oak joist—a spare rafter timber Valerie had dragged from the far corner—swung through the air like a battering ram. It caught Ray squarely across the side of his neck with the full force of a girl who had spent six months training her upper body on a rowing machine.

Ray’s head snapped violently to the side. The knife slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly against the oak floor. He collapsed onto his stomach, out cold, his chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged gasps.

Valerie stood over him, holding the heavy wooden joist in her shaking hands, her breath coming in ragged, terrified gulps. Tears were streaming down her face, cutting clean tracks through the mud on her cheeks.

"Mom..." she sobbed, dropping the timber. "Mom, is he... did I kill him?"

I pushed myself up from the crate, wiping a smear of blood from my lip. I scrambled over to Ray’s unconscious body, grabbed the hunting knife from the floor, and immediately checked the pulse at his neck.

"No," I gasped, my chest heaving. "He's alive. But he isn't getting up anytime soon."

I didn't waste a second. I picked up the 12-gauge shotgun from the floor, cycled the pump to clear the spent shell, and grabbed the extra box of ammunition sticking out of Ray’s coat pocket.

Then, I looked at his feet.

Ray wore a pair of heavy, thermal-lined, waterproof steel-toe hunting boots. Size 10.

I set the shotgun down, unbuckled his boots, and pulled them off his feet, along with his thick wool socks.

"Put these on, Val," I ordered, tossing the boots to my daughter.

"Mom, those are huge on me—"

"Put them on over your wet sneakers," I commanded, my voice cold and absolute. "Tie the laces around your ankles. You need protection for your feet."

Five minutes later, we stepped out of the forestry shed.

Valerie was wearing Ray’s heavy boots tied tight over her ruined shoes, along with his dry wool socks. I wore his heavy denim work coat over my fleece, the shotgun held securely against my chest, the hunting knife tucked into my belt.

We were no longer prey fleeing through the dark. We were armed, sheltered from the absolute worst of the cold, and driven by a single, burning purpose.

I looked down the mountain toward County Route 9.

"Mom?" Valerie asked quietly, her hand holding my sleeve. "Where are we going?"

I turned my head toward the road, my eyes narrowing into two slits of pure, unforgiving steel.