Table Of Contents

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6,
Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12(new)

Chapter 1

Claire sat quietly in her above-ground storm shelter with the wind and rain raging outside. Pieces of debris fluttered against the sides of the reinforced concrete structure, brushing past the narrow window in its thick opaque glass that let in a bit of gray light. It was her grandfather's old shelter, her first time using it after inheriting his place. She'd just started making repairs. Good thing, because another hurricane was bearing down on Louisiana.

A drip from the back corner caught her attention, and she walked over between the shelving units stocked with supplies and moved a bucket into place to catch the drips. As she stood and backed up, checking out the hole she'd have to fix, knocks rang out on her door.

She turned and cocked her head curiously, walking over, calling, "Who is it?"

"A wayward traveler," a man called back. "Looking for shelter in the storm."

She slipped over to the door and opened the viewing slit, looking through to see a gruff face with a beard riding high up on his cheeks. Friendly blue eyes stared back at her. "It's brutal out here," he laughed good-naturedly.

"Can you let me in until the storm passes?"

"I wish I could, mister," Claire said with a slow shake of her head, "but I can't." She narrowed her eyes. "Hey, aren't you the guy I saw in town the other day? You got kicked out of Happy Tom's Bar. I thought Deputy Lawry told you to leave town."

The man's gaze turned steely in a flash, crimson flooding his face. An arm thrust through the opening, digits grasping at her. Claire's stomach lurched as she retreated cautiously, then lunged for the peephole cover, attempting to force it closed. His forearm blocked it, so she seized a pair of his flailing fingers and wrenched them back, eliciting a howl and the abrupt withdrawal of his limb. She swiftly slammed the panel and pressed against the entrance, leaning in and panting.

Claire listened for the man to walk away, expecting to hear the telltale signs of his boots crunching across her gravel driveway. Instead, something heavy slammed against the door, sending her skittering back several steps at the ominous boom. Another heavy weight crashed against the door, rattling it in its frame.

"You'll never get through!" she called hesitantly. "It's a reinforced frame and-"

The doorjamb cracked as the object struck it a third time, and Claire remembered the old log sitting just outside beneath the oak tree. Plenty of branchlets for the man to grab onto and swing the whole thing like a battering ram. The fourth hit struck a booming blow that shook the shelter. The door flew in with a crack, flying back against the wall, leaving the man standing there, dripping wet, holding the heavy log by thick shoot. Wind and rain rushed in, whistling through the room like a banshee released.

Claire was ready with the old Louisville Slugger she'd found behind the door when she'd first started clearing the cobwebs from the place. In a two-handed grip, she swung it at the man, cracking him in the forearm and drawing a pained shout. He rushed forward, jamming his palm into her face like a football running back giving a stiff arm, sending her sailing backward with ridiculous ease, the bat flying as she landed on her backside. The man tried to kick her, but fell off balance, staggering in a wash of alcohol breath, tripping over her as he tried to kick her again, and Claire, not knowing what else to do, latched onto his leg and clung for dear life. His pants smelled old, wet, and musty like they'd seen a lot of road and not much washing.

"Let go!" He screamed, punching her head. "Get off me, girl!"

When he popped his knuckles ineffectively against the top of her head, he squeezed his fist with a wince and stooped to swing in from the side, catching Claire in the cheek and the temple before she turned the other way and wrapped her face around the backside of his leg. He shifted and used his other fist to pound at her head, probing to get at the soft, delicate parts of her face.

Ears ringing, teeth clenched against the throbbing dizziness that was beginning to take hold, Claire realized it was just a matter of time before he knocked her flat out. Leveraging herself against the floor while being half-dragged across the shelter, Claire got her knees beneath her, clenched his leg harder, and lifted. Thrown off balance, the man stumbled into a shelf, sending a clatter of canned goods to the floor. Something big and heavy struck the back of Claire's leg, and she switched to the other cheek and squinted through his continuing blows. It was her flashlight, one of those big, heavy ones that weighed about six pounds... one her grandpa might say was good enough to use as a weapon.

"Get off me!" he screamed again, "you stupid bitch!" Snatching her by the hair, he leveled a couple more punches to the side of her face, striking her ear to send bells ringing through her brain.

The man threw his weight back the other way just as Claire reached for the flashlight, her fingers brushing the cool, heavy metal but unable to grab it. Then he was tripping drunkenly over her again, crashing into a different shelf, sending tools spilling to the floor. He was half-sitting by then, leaning back against the shelves with a handful of her hair. Pain shot through her scalp as strands ripped out. Two shelves came loose and crashed on their heads, along with more canned goods, tools, and a first aid kit, adding to her lumps.

But it gave Claire just the moment she needed.

Claire released his leg, dove for the flashlight, and got her hand around the shaft with its slightly rough handgrip. Every instinct told her to take the opportunity and try to get away, to go running through the door and out into the screaming wind. But his fingers curled tightly in her hair told her she didn't have a chance. Instinct took hold, and she lifted the flashlight, half-rolling and ripping hair out of her scalp, swinging upward with a grunt, thrusting the heavy flashlight head as hard as she could toward his face. She cracked something hard, and the aggressive tension in his body froze and withered just a bit. Claire threw her face up so she could see, glaring through the blood dripping down her face, cocking the flashlight back and swinging again. He almost caught her wrist, didn't quite get it before the heavy bell end of the flashlight caught him in the middle of his face with a crunch. His nose burst like a cherry, blood gushing down his face in a red wave. The hand in her hair tried to thrust her away while the other reached to block her from doing more damage. He caught her wrist on her wrist the third swing, but the heavy end of the flashlight whipped forward and cracked against his sloping forehead. And then he was shoving, kicking, and thrusting her away, bucking so hard that she flew off him and rolled across the floor.

The bat was there, the Louisville Slugger she'd dropped, and she grabbed it and rose, swinging it two-handed as she came up. The end of the bat snapped two of his fingers as he tried to block it, bringing a raspy, gurgling scream from his throat. Claire couldn't afford to give the larger man a chance to get up, so she swung again and again, forcing him to curl against the shelving, one arm up in desperate defense.

She swung once, twice, and then a third time, each with a resounding crunch of wood against bone, something in his skull giving way just before the shaft of the bat cracked down the middle. She clenched her whole body, throwing every bit of weight into one final swing... and when it came, the man collapsed back and ceased moving. Claire stood there, panting, chest heaving, body thrumming, the bloody bat end drooping in her grip.

***

Claire had the man by his feet, lifting his heavy legs. His clothes were soaked with rainwater, only adding to his weight. She tugged backward with all her might, moving him about six inches, then again moving him six inches more. Bit by bit, she pulled him out of the shelter as the wind whipped in from the side to blast stinging rain against her bruised cheeks. Once she'd gotten him across the gravel and into the garden, she let his legs drop and staggered back to the shelter, almost blown off balance once or twice. She didn't bother to check if he was breathing because she was pretty sure he wasn't. She shuffled back inside, put her shoulder against the door to shut it, and reached for her chair, flipping it around and placing it under the door latch to hold it shut. She staggered back, looking around the shelter her grandfather had built. Canned goods were scattered across the floor, and one shelf in the back was almost completely broken down, spatters of blood everywhere.

She started cleaning up then numbly reached into her pocket to take out her phone, dialing nine-one-one. At first, she was certain no one would answer; they'd be too caught up in storm emergencies. But someone did answer, a soft female voice on the other end.

"This is 911. What's the emergency?"

Claire started to tell her but finally broke down in a flood of emotion, shoulders trembling, tears streaming down her face. And after a full minute of the 911 operator trying to calm her down, she told her what happened.

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Chapter 2

Claire exited the police cruiser without any assistance, her hands cuffed in front of her. Deputy Lawry held the door open, observing her with cautious blue eyes framed by a freckled face. His bright red hair was neatly combed back in a perfect side part.

"You okay?" Lawry asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Claire reported, stepping away from the cruiser.

"It's just up there," Lawry said, softly closing the door and motioning towards the police station doors.

"I know where it is… I've just never been inside."

"Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine. Try to relax if you can."

Claire nodded and followed Deputy Lawry towards the glass doors, cringing beneath the burning stares of the townsfolk. Dozens were out in the street, collecting debris that had been blown off their houses or stores, pausing to watch her and the deputy as they spoke in hushed whispers.

"Once we get in, just keep walking," Lawry instructed, getting out in front of Claire and holding the door.

A stout officer with a firm jaw and a grim expression held open the second set of doors, and Claire moved past him into the main area where a single dispatcher sat in a cubicle on the far side. She tossed her long black braids over her shoulder as she turned, gifting Claire with a sympathetic smile. Along with two larger desks taking up most of the center of the room, leaky buckets were strategically placed throughout the room, collecting water from a stained, tiled ceiling.

"Keep going, Claire," Lawry urged, catching up to her and gesturing for her to keep moving. "Right down that hallway there."

Claire went on toward a pair of raised voices two doors down. She glanced left into a small interrogation room where a disheveled man in wet clothes was being interrogated by a female officer with short, black hair. Claire recognized the woman from around town, but she still didn't know her name.

"When did you get into town?" the officer was saying.

The man scoffed, practically spitting the words. "We got here a couple of days ago. We were supposed to stay with some friends out on the beach, but we had a falling out and my brother just took off. He never came back—"

The man's gaze lifted to Claire, turning cold and hostile with a sudden dawning light. The black-haired officer got up from her seat and softly closed the door.

"Please continue, Claire," Lawry said, gently coaxing her forward.

"Sorry," Claire replied, shuffling the rest of the way down the hall, her soaked shoes making squelching sounds on the tile floor, slowing as she reached the dimly lit doorway at the end of the hall.

"The first room on the right," Lawry directed, stopping at the doorway as Claire stepped into the middle of the small, plain room. Like the interview room she passed before, it had a table resting against the far wall and a chair on either side.

"Sorry about the flickering lights," Lawry said, nodding at the ceiling. "The emergency power is a little wonky. Just take a seat in the far chair over there. Would you like something to drink? A soda or coffee…"

"Coffee, please," Claire replied as she shuffled over, turned, and sat. She fixed Lawry with a questioning look. "Is that the man's brother?"

Lawry glanced back with a wince and nodded. "Yeah, that's him. But you don't need to be afraid, all right?"

"I'm not afraid," Claire said softly, placing her hands on the desk with a rattle of handcuffs.

Lawry nodded after a long moment before closing the door, leaving Claire alone in the chilly room with the flickering emergency lights. A little while later, he returned with a foam cup filled with black coffee. Along with a creamer and packet of sugar, he placed it in front of her and took the seat opposite.

"The coffee's old, but we've been busy," he said, running his hand through his wet, red hair. "This weather has been absolutely insane."

"Tell me about it," Claire replied, adding one creamer to her coffee while pushing the sugar aside.

The deputy placed a notepad on the table, tapped it with the end of his pen, and fixed her with a serious look. "Again, I apologize for the lights, but the generators are about as old as this building."

"The storm has been rough on everyone," Claire said, taking a sip. The coffee was so bitter, even with the creamer, it curled her lip.

"Unfortunately, it seems like there's another storm on its way."

"Why are we here, Deputy? Did I do something wrong? Am I under arrest?"

"No, not at all. It's standard procedure to clear the area until the coroner is done, and I needed to get some information from you… a statement and all"

"Okay."

"Can you explain what happened?"

"I told you back at the house."

"Right, but let's go over it again before Miss Mays speaks with you."

"She's the investigator?"

"That's right. Just... tell me what happened in your own words."

Claire recounted the story once more, how the man had broken down her shelter door and forced entry, and how she'd defended herself using deadly force. Lawry listened attentively, taking notes and wincing when she mentioned striking him with the bat.

"And you didn't think about stopping?"

"Stopping?" Claire shook her head. "What do you mean?"

"After he was down, you didn't think about backing off?"

A wave of uncertainty washed over her as her mind replayed those last, brutal moments. How she'd held the bat firmly in a two-handed grip, swinging with her hips just like her father had taught her to hit a softball — the sound of wood cracking bone with a wet crunch. She'd been shaking her head slowly throughout her story, but the motion grew more emphatic, her breathing ragged as the events replayed like a movie in her mind.

"I don't think so, Deputy Lawry." Claire paused, tears welling up again, a persistent shudder running through her regardless of her efforts to stop it. "He was coming at me aggressively, and he was drunk too. I could smell it on him." She looked up plaintively. "I was in my own shelter, minding my own business, waiting out the storm like everyone else. He broke the door down with a log… a log. There was no… backing off."

Lawry studied Claire for a moment before tapping his notepad one last time. "I believe you, Claire. Truly, I do. And you can call me Sean if you want."

Claire nodded slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. "All right, Sean. What happens now?"

"In a little while, you'll need to speak with Lieutenant Mays, but I assure you it won't take long."

"Sounds like I'm in trouble?"

"Look, I think you acted in self-defense, which is well within your rights here in Louisiana. Speaking to Lieutenant Mays is just another part of the process."

Clair's eyes slipped to aside. "What about the guy's brother? Is he angry?"

Lawry glanced briefly at the closed door behind him. "Well, he's not happy. It seems there was a misunderstanding at the place they were staying, and the man you fought with left and went on a bender. I actually had to throw him out of the bar a few days ago."

"I heard about that when I was in town yesterday. Didn't think much of it until I saw him stumbling down the sidewalk."

"There were plenty of witnesses to that, too. Plenty of people to corroborate his attitude prior to showing up at your place. You should be in the clear."

"Good," Claire said with a strained smile. "That's good to know, Sean."

***

Claire stepped outside into a somber gray sky with angry clouds swirling above the town. People were scuttling about with packages in their arms, rushing to and from the hardware store and corner grocery back to their vehicles, leaning into the wind and drizzle. The curbs were still overflowing with dirty water from the last dump of rain that poured into the sewer grates in a rush. A few birds fluttered along the blocks of quaint shops—fishing gear, antiques, and a myriad of rustic businesses that had convinced Claire to keep her grandparents' place and try to carve out a life there in Louisiana. Deputy Lawry had promised Claire a ride home after she picked up some supplies, so she turned toward the hardware store, aiming to pick up some wood to repair her broken door.

A figure emerged from the hedgerow to Claire's right, a towering shape that seemed to flow out of nowhere and rush toward her. Claire leaped back with a soft cry, her left fist raised defensively, her right fist cocked back in a reflexive strike posture. It was the man from earlier, the brother of the man she'd killed, approaching in a long, torn trench coat that engulfed his tall and haggard frame. His gloved hand, with the fingers cut out, extended towards her throat, his eyes thrumming with an intensity that shook her into action. She swatted at his arm, but it was like hitting a piece of steel. With a desperate lunge backward, she managed to evade his grasp, although he snatched a few strands of her hair in his grubby fingers, ripping them clean from her scalp.

"Hey!" Claire barked. "Leave me alone!"

"You killed my brother," the man growled, pausing with his hands clenched in front of him. "You didn't have to do that."

"He broke into my shelter!"

"He was just drunk," the man spat, taking two more menacing steps towards her.

Claire continued to retreat, her fight-or-flight response clashing in her veins. "Get away!" she said low through clenched teeth. "Leave me alone! I'm warning you!"

"You're gonna regret what you've done," he said in a flash of crazed clarity, the anger in his eyes shifting to flat resolve. "I'll make you pay!"

"No—"

A strong arm swept in, slapping against the man's chest, two hands appearing to shove him straight back. Deputy Lawry, his face contorted in a grimace, got between them. Despite being smaller than his assailant, he effortlessly pushed him in the opposite direction, down the sidewalk and towards the bushes.

"Backup, Trevor," Lawry commanded, his voice cutting through the tension. "Just back right up."

Across the street, a small crowd of townsfolk had stopped what they were doing and gathered, watching the confrontation with narrow, curious eyes.

"She needs to pay for what happened," Trevor growled.

"Is that a threat, Trevor?" Lawry responded sternly, "If it is, I can escort you straight into the station and put you in a cell until you settle down."

Trevor's anger dissipated, his labored breathing subsiding as he meekly admitted defeat. "No, I'm not threatening her, but it's not like you're going to do anything about it. Look at her, walking free—"

"You have two options," Lawry said, holding his ground. "Go to your friend's place or leave town. It's up to you. Just don't let me catch sight of you in town or around Claire again, got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," Trevor said, shuffling backwards slowly. He cast a final harsh glare in Claire's direction, the promise of revenge flashing there before he hurried away and disappeared around the corner.

Lawry watched him go before turning to Claire with a half-smile. "Are you alright?"

"I'm okay. Just a little shaken up."

"I don't blame you. It's been a long day."

"Can't you do something about him? Maybe keep him in a cell overnight until he calms down or something?"

"I wish I could. He's understandably upset about his brother, but he hasn't committed any crimes. Regardless, it's not your concern. Do you still want to get those supplies you were after?"

"Yeah… I need to fix the door on my shelter."

"Want me to come with you?"

"No, I'll be fine. Can you still take me home when I'm done?"

"Absolutely. Just let me know when you're ready."

Claire kept her eyes fixed on the corner where Trevor had vanished before sidestepping towards the street. She nodded at Lawry. "Thank you, Deputy... I mean, Sean. I appreciate it. I'll be back in a jiffy."

Claire crossed the street with purposeful strides, her shoulders tense and eyes fixed ahead on the crooked hardware store sign, weathered and beaten from the storm, her only wish to get her supplies and get home before the next storm hit.

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Chapter 3

Lightning flashed brightly across the desolate gray sky, tearing through the turbulent clouds and their various shades of gray. The second major storm in just a few days was raging through the Gulf of Mexico, ready to pummel the Louisiana Gulf Coast with a powerful punch. Appropriately named Hurricane Igor, this new storm threatened to bring even stronger winds and pressure systems than Hurricane Dora, which had passed through thirty-six hours earlier.

Claire glanced up from where she knelt in the doorway of her grandfather's storm shelter, squinting through the cold drizzle that gently kissed her cheeks. The wind picked up, rustling her grandfather's garden and causing the old, withered tomato plants and cornstalks to sway. Claire had moved there less than a month ago and hadn't had the chance to replant anything, let alone make something grow. But as she looked at the homemade raised beds her grandfather had built, adorned with faded painted designs of turtles, rabbits, and kittens, a wave of nostalgic memories washed over her with a deep pang of longing and sad regret. She shook off the emotions and focused on the task at hand — fixing the door.

Each swing of the hammer was like fortifying a wall against the terrifying encounter she'd faced when Vernon Cross had broken in almost two days ago. The unexpected kindness of the townsfolk, especially Deputy Lawry, had helped put her mind at ease—at least her hands had stopped shaking. Before she lost herself in the cold memory of that encounter, Claire resumed hammering, finally fixing the broken frame with one last strike from her hammer. Satisfied with its sturdiness, she began screwing in the new striker plate she'd purchased from the store.

The radio played in the background, tuned to a weather station where a professional male voice cut through the static, delivering updates. "… severe winds are currently hitting the Louisiana Gulf Coast, and residents should anticipate even stronger winds as the night progresses. Atmospheric and oceanic conditions are favorable for record-breaking winds and flooding, although the levees are expected to hold. It is advised to stay indoors, preferably in a well-built storm shelter or the lowest point of your home."

Claire's eyes darted to where she'd left Vernon to die, vividly recalling the moment she'd stepped outside after Hurricane Dora had dissipated. Deputy Lawry had been standing there, hands on his hips, by Vernon's lifeless body, his skin cold and clammy, clothes torn by the storm. The winds had pushed him onto his stomach, leaving blood stains on the gravel, a memory Clair would not soon forget.

Shuddering, she finished with the striker plate, testing the door a few times to ensure it shut properly. The rain intensified, a sideways drizzle cutting across her left cheek, and she pulled her poncho hood over her head and tightly fastened the strings. Dropping her tools into her work bucket, she closed the shelter door and turned towards her grandparents' backyard. A flash of lightning illuminated the shadows, revealing the gardens and the large two-story house that sat on a wide, flat plot of land. To the southeast lay swamps, while to the north stretched an expanse of an old commercial crop field that hadn't been worked in a decade. The house, an old plantation-style structure, was weathered and beaten, its white paint worn away from years of neglect and storms. Claire's eyes followed the grand columns that supported the porch roof, some of them newer, having been replaced by her grandfather before ill health had taken its toll on him. The front porch stretched the length of the house and curved slightly around the side where a pair of rockers faced the swamp.

Claire strode down the gravel lane towards the house, a chill on her shoulders as she checked the bottom floor storm shutters, ensuring the hardware was okay and there were no gaps or flaws. One of the shutters outside her bedroom window had come loose, so she closed and locked it, using her flashlight to check for any gaps. She made her way to the front of the house and climbed the wide porch steps to go inside to check the windows and shutters upstairs. Anxiety lodged in her stomach like a stone, giving her the sensation of being pursued or watched. She stood on the porch, looking around at the trees and gardens in the front yard, her eyes slowly moving down the driveway to the road, but seeing nothing.

Heading in, she went upstairs and opened the windows, checking the storm shutters from the inside and finding almost everything in good shape except for one shutter in her grandparents' old bedroom. Claire put reinforcement screws in to secure it, then turned to glance at the old nightstands, drawers, and bureau her grandparents had since their wedding day. She'd put out feelers to the rest of the family, asking if anyone wanted the bedroom set, but she hadn't heard anything back yet. With a sigh, Claire left the room and headed downstairs through the kitchen.

By the time she reached the back deck, Igor was howling loudly, tossing lighter branches into the air and sending leaves and debris floating through the sky. Branchlets on the large oak tree in the front yard were being blown off, Spanish moss flying off with the leaves. A high-pitched howl echoed from her grandfather's old, rusty Ford parked at the edge of the field as the wind blew through the empty shell like a brass instrument. Claire quickly checked that the deck furniture was secure and locked the plastic storage bin, placing cinderblocks on its lid for extra weight. The wind swept around the house, causing her poncho to flutter around her bare legs stuck in jean shorts and shin-high galoshes. Claire jumped off the porch and moved to the side of the house, inspecting the woodshed door and the other small outbuildings on the property, deeming them about as secure as they could possibly be.

Igor squalled and sent hardline winds in from the side, causing the surface of the swamp to ripple. The big bald cypresses rocked back and forth like swaying drunkards unable to find their balance. Standing at the edge of the murky water near the back porch, Claire hugged her poncho tightly around her shoulders, peering into the murky darkness of the impenetrable swamp.

A burst of lightning cracked across the sky, followed by a heavy downpour that drenched the ground instantly. The raindrops were thick and heavy, creating a torrent of splashes and transforming the yard into a swamp. With a yelp, Claire took off, splashing across the yard toward the shelter's front door. She turned the doorknob and paused, glancing around the yard. The landscape, from the fields to the house and beyond, was obscured by a wall of mist covered in a gray blanket. Her visibility was limited to the end of the driveway and across the main road to the next property where trees were bent low, their branches waving like ghoulish arms, causing Claire's heart to race. She flung the shelter door open, entered, and quickly locked it, throwing a two-by-four into the braces she'd installed, barring the door completely.

Dripping wet, she unzipped her poncho and hung it on a hook by the door. Turning towards the cozy shelter, illuminated by a soft electric lantern, she paused to frown at the spot on the concrete floor where she'd cleaned up Vernon's blood, the bleach having left strange marks in front of the shelves they'd crashed into during their struggles. She'd repaired the shelves and restacked all the canned food, flashlights, and boxes of batteries, then disposed of the bloody Louisville Slugger in the garbage can, unable to bear the sight of the hair clumps and blood stuck to it. Claire walked into the back room and checked the small but powerful solar-powered battery she'd been using for the past few days. It was still at seventy-five percent power, more than enough to charge her phone, a couple of lights, and a small television and DVD player she could use to watch a movie or two.

After lighting a couple of candles and retrieving some old blankets from a wooden bin, Claire was looking forward to a cozy night despite Igor's wailing and howling outside. The rain pelted against the side of the shelter, forcefully attacking the roof and walls, but the repairs she'd made earlier in the day held up, and she couldn't help but give a hesitant grin at how things had worked out. Settling into a soft reclining lawn chair in the back room, she pulled the blanket up to her chin and took a deep, steady breath. The storm sounds and radio voice provided a soothing soundtrack, whispering her to sleep like a trusted confidant. Claire was teetering on the edge of slumber, about to be enveloped in a blissful and intoxicating dream world where the events of the previous thirty-six hours could be briefly forgotten, when her phone abruptly buzzed in her pocket. Wearily shifting to her left, she reached into her pants pocket and retrieved it.

With a deep furrow in her brow, she reluctantly answered the call and pressed the phone to her ear. "Sean?"

"Hey, Claire," Lawry's voice blared through the static, fluctuating in volume with each word. "I, uh, just wanted to give you a call... more like a heads up, really."

An uneasy sensation stirred in Claire's stomach, snapping her awake and pulling her away from the drowsiness that had almost claimed her. "A heads up about what?"

"Well, after everything that went down earlier at the police station, I decided to dig into Vernon and Trevor Cross. I'd actually been trying to do that before, but with the phones being out then and just coming back..."

"I understand, Sean. Are you saying you've found something concerning about them?"

"Yeah, actually. Turns out these two guys are wanted by the Florida police in connection to some really heinous acts over there."

Claire bolted upright, her gaze fixed on the flickering candle resting on a plastic cooler nearby where she had her supplies and snacks. "What kind of trouble are we talking about?" she asked.

Lawry cleared his throat, the hesitation in his voice evident. "There have been a couple of murders in Destin, and the Cross brothers are the suspects. The authorities have been searching for them for two weeks. They thought they might've made it to Texas by now, but it seems like they never got that far."

Claire's attention shifted to the door as Igor knocked with shrieking winds. "Is Trevor coming after me? What should I do?"

"I would've… you up… not a good idea," Lawry said, his voice crackling through a stretch of static that lasted several seconds.

"Sorry, Sean. Say that again? I didn't catch that."

"I would pick you up," Lawry said, speaking louder and more forcefully, "but I don't think it's a good idea in this storm. But you should be safe where you are."

"Are you sure? Should I try to come into town?"

"No, don't risk it. It's too dangerous outside."

"But what about Terrance?"

"We don't even know if he's still in town. Chances are, he fled. But even if he's not, he's still got to deal with the storm. I bet he's already hunkered down somewhere. Don't worry, we'll find him."

Claire stared at the door, her chin beginning to tremble.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm here. I just... don't know what to do."

"Where are you now?"

"In my shelter, staying low."

"Stay put and call me if you need anything."

"What if we lose cell service?"

"Do you have a radio?"

"I think Grandpa has one in a cabinet in here."

"Well, if you find it, tune it to channel 16. You should be able to reach me there. If not, I'll come by in the morning to check on you."

"Okay."

"Hey, Claire, I won't lie and say everything's fine, not after what you've been through. Find yourself a weapon and stay vigilant. If anything happens—"

"Call you."

"That's right. You good?"

"I don't have a choice but to be good, Sean. Thanks for calling and letting me know."

"No problem. Stay safe, and we'll talk soon."

Claire hung up and let the phone fall into her lap, unable to look away from the door, her ears straining to hear any sign of approaching danger over Igor's cries, like the sound of boots on gravel or a whisper of menacing laughter. After what felt like an eternity of just the storm, she stood up and began to search the shelter for something she could use to defend herself.

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Chapter 4

Water drip-dripped across the broken, battered yard with scatterings of stripped branchlets, thick limbs, and leaves strewn across the soggy grass. The big cypresses out back by the swamp hung low, branches swaying in melancholic silence above waters rippling with movement. Smaller adolescent trees along the edges of the swamp had been completely uprooted, their branches shorn off and tossed haphazardly to the wind, creating a canvas of debris. Downspouts hung off the old plantation house, and several storm shutters on both floors hung crooked. Puddles soaked the yard and driveway, and a slow drizzle of rain tapped on the beat-up husk of the broken-down car that remained entrenched in its muddy grave, unmoved by Hurricane Igor's abrasive winds. Out on the road, pieces of shingles and siding lay scattered in the road, and power cables lay limp and sparking on the wet pavement.

A sound emanated from the storm shelter where leaves and grass clung to the front, and a gnarled limb lay across the roof with its branchlets drooping over the side like a tired traveler after an exhaustive journey. The storm shelter's door bar slid up with a scrape of wood on wood, a lock clicked, and the knob turned. The door opened inward slowly, hesitantly, revealing Claire as she stepped out in her shorts and galoshes, her poncho on but with the hood pushed back. Her face in the shadows was pale, her hair greasy and unwashed, tired eyes searching the yard with darting looks. In her right hand, she clutched an old steel pipe, something her grandfather might've used to make repairs on the property, its weight heavy as she hefted it in plain view.

In the aftermath of the storm, the world seemed quiet and calm, so Claire walked slowly to the driveway, then turned toward the house, doing a full turn to assess the damage Hurricane Igor had done. Her heart beat steadily, her breath shallow but calm as she stood in the aftermath of Nature's fury. There were no people, no rescue crews or survivors, no one lying in wait to hurt her. It was just storm damage everywhere she looked. And if she wanted to stay in town and live on her grandparents' property, she'd have to get used to temperamental weather sweeping in across the Gulf. There'd be more repairs, more precautions, and always with the looming knowledge that a real big one could blow through and take all that she'd worked for away in the blink of an eye. But if it meant keeping the house in the family and having a piece of property she could call her own, Claire would embrace the prospect.

She walked through the front yard, stooping to pick up loose branches and toss them into small piles, putting garbage in separate ones, and pieces of shingles and construction wood in another. Working her way around the side of the house, she came to the back where the yard was filled with leaves and debris ripped from the heads of the swamp trees and hurled across the deck rails and in the flower gardens. Pieces of loose, wet moss and leaves stuck to the back of the house, and one section of the eave was drooping more than the rest, indicating a major repair would be needed. Claire was up for it, gathering strength and determination as she used the steel bar to herd loose pieces into more piles, working her way to the deck stairs and leaping up them two at a time to check on the deck furniture and bins.

Claire froze at the top of the stairs, a cold chill settling in her spine as she stared at the back door, which stood wide open. She tried to remember if she'd shut and locked the door, and she was certain she had, but the wind had been unpredictable, and the hardware on the door questionable. It made perfect sense that a high hurricane wind might've blown it open.

Claire swallowed, unable to shake the sense of uneasiness that gripped her stomach. She hefted the metal bar and moved closer, standing at the threshold of the kitchen. An inch-deep puddle of water sat just inside the doorway, stretching three feet into the kitchen. Claire leaned in, looking down the aisle between the sink and refrigerator, unable to make out much in the dim light with the storm shutters closed. She backed out and sidestepped along the deck, loosening the storm shutters above the kitchen window and throwing them wide. Back at the doorway, Claire stepped farther in, her feet in the puddle, blinking at the cups and dishes that had been swept off their shelves, leaving glass shards scattered across the kitchen floor. A cat calendar and most of her reminders and notes had been blown off the refrigerator, ripped from their securing magnets and left strewn across the counters and plastered to the walls, wet from the in-blown rain.

Her eyes roamed the room, searching for the shadows beneath the arch leading to the dining room. They shifted back across the tiled kitchen floor toward her, resting on a blueprint made of mud and moisture, a big man-sized boot imprint as plain as day. The massive, heavy prints seemed to mock her on the stained tile as they marched off into the dining room and disappeared.

Claire's heart froze in her chest, her limbs locking up, her jaw popping open slightly as she stood in the strange, dripping silence of the post-storm world. With her free hand, she pulled up her poncho, put her hand into her pocket, and brought out her cell phone, starting to press the nine but pausing when she realized there was no connection, no cellular service. The towers must still be down! Panic tightened around her chest, a firm grip that arrested her breathing even as she listened for any sound that might give away the intruder. Deep down, though, she knew who it was.

From the hallway straight ahead, a dark figure loomed, hulking and blocking any ray of light creeping through the storm windows on that side of the house. The figure moved forward with the rustling of a long coat, heavy boots on the old, creaking hardwood, hands outstretched as he slipped along the hallway walls where old pictures of her family hung. Claire was frozen to the spot, her grip on the steel pipe sweaty and weak, only able to watch as the shape reached the edge of the light. Old, grubby pant legs half tucked into boots. Heavy belly and chest parting the trench coat. A grizzled face with a scraggly beard and piercing cold eyes beneath a head of damp, curly hair. A wash of alcohol wafted off him, and a slow smile crawled across his face.

"I was hoping to catch you home," Trevor said, his voice just above a low growl, laced with a note of pleasure. "I think it's time we settle up for what you did, don't you?"

Claire's throat had gone dry, the muscles of her neck constricting tight. The sheer size of Trevor, standing in the hallway, forced her to take a step back. "Get out of my house," she said, her tone matching his if not for the slight tremor, the sprig of uncertainty.

Trevor advanced into the kitchen, his flexing fists dangling at his sides, his jaw tightening, eyes taking on an intense focus. "Is this where you killed him? Did my brother die in your kitchen?"

Claire stepped back slowly, shaking her head, feeling strangely obligated to answer his question. "Out there, on the driveway. That's where I left him… after he attacked me, after he broke into my place and—"

Trevor gathered himself with the spring action of a cat, stooping and then flying forward, launching himself at Claire with outstretched hands, his fingers clenched into claws. She raised the metal bar and swung it downward with a cry, but the tip of the bar caught the top of the doorframe, stopping her swing cold. And then his hands were on her, grabbing fistfuls of her poncho while thrusting her backward. Claire was kicking, crying out, slipping on the wet decking, then slithering from his grip. She tumbled backward off the top step, bent backward, and hung suspended in the air for a long stretch of time, staring into his snarling face. The sky came into view, gray clouds filling her vision, a pair of birds weaving back and forth in the mist. Down she went, hitting the grass with a thud that shocked her entire body. Lightning pain raced up her back as the air was knocked from her lungs in a whoosh, leaving her lying there coughing and gasping for air.

Trevor stood at the top of the stairs, grinning like a ghoul, gripping both sides of the rail as he started down after her. Claire rolled to the side, willing her body to get up and run, forcing it to crawl through the waterlogged yard, cold water filling the sleeves of her poncho, soaking down her sides and splashing in her face. As Trevor's boots thudded on the old wooden steps, Claire tried getting to her knees only to collapse again. Gasping, straining, forcing her body to do more. She got up and kept moving, half-crawling, half-staggering several feet away from Trevor's splashing shuffle through the grass. She could sense his grasping hands as he reached for her, and if she let him catch her, he'd never let her go.

Adrenaline raced through her system, electrifying her with the sudden urge to fear-flight. Springing to her feet, Claire lunged just out of Trevor's sweeping grasp, staggering across the yard toward the driveway and listening as his boots splashed faster through the water-soaked yard. His low growl reverberated in the storm-soaked air, the sound a tiger made when it all but caught its prey and looked forward to a bloody meal. Claire got the brief notion to run straight ahead through the field with its cracked and broken cornrows, the mud and old farm implements out there sitting unused and rusted. But Trevor would be on her before she could get too far, his longer strides catching her easily. At the last second, Clair broke to the right and made Trevor miss again, leaving him staggering forward and falling to one knee as she raced for the swamps.

"You can't get away, Claire!" Trevor bellowed, his deep rasp reverberating across the water.

Claire raced toward the embrace of sweeping magnolias, ducking beneath a cascade of willow branches that enveloped her like a blanket, gently brushing her shoulders. She glanced down at her phone as she skirted the edge of the swamp, leaping into the grimy water and lunging ahead with bold, gigantic, sweeping steps. Cell phone held high and out of the sloshing waves, she pressed through the brackish marsh into the deep swamp where Trevor couldn't possibly follow.

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Chapter 5

Claire swatted branches and twigs out of her face as she ran, headfirst, through the dense, murky swamp. Swamp plants clung to her legs, her galoshes splashing through the muddy water. Her breath came in gasps as she raced to get away from Trevor's booming calls as they echoed off the swamp waters and through the gnarled treetops.

"Claire! Claire! I'm coming for you, Claire!"

Her pulse synchronized with the sound of Trevor's shouts, his voice echoing like a dead promise behind her. With a massive exhalation, she burst through the underbrush, heart pounding, all sense of direction gone. Her only thought was to get away. The air was thick with humidity. An oppressive grayness hung overhead, leftover from Hurricane Igor, the light barely visible between breaks in the swamp trees. Being smaller and faster than her pursuer, Claire thought she could get away easily. Her scrambling feet, sweeping arms, and frantic movements should've been more than enough to put Trevor well behind her, but the foliage was too thick, the ground too squishy, every step sucking way more energy out of her legs than it should have. When she finally found a stable trail of mud and knee-high grass cutting through the swamp, she put her head down and ran harder.

Entering a thick part of the swamp with bald cypress trees and sweet-smelling magnolias with drooping branches, Claire kept to the muddy path that wound between them. Her hand outstretched, she staggered from tree to tree, her fingers trailing over the rough bark as she went. She avoided the gnarled cypress knees and the dead-water smell that might indicate deeper water, though most of the time she couldn't tell if the ground was actually moss-covered stagnation or just patches of mud and grass. She brushed past hanging Spanish moss, the oily tendrils brushing her skin like ghostly fingers. Frogs croaked in the brackish water, and the rustle of unseen creatures sluiced across the surface then splashed when she passed by.

She paused for a moment, resting her right hand on a tall, straight tree trunk that jutted forty feet into the sky, its sparse, slender branches spreading out horizontally above her head with small, leathery leaves. There was a cluster of similar trees holding together a mound of firm mud and clay with bushels of grass sprouting up and funny flowers she used to know the names of. She waited, breathing hard, leaning against the firm tree trunk, slightly alarmed at how shaky her legs were. Claire had once been an athletic girl, going out for various sports teams in high school, though she'd never been a star athlete. She preferred hikes and climbs but seldom broke into a dead run, never like this before.

"Claire!" Trevor shouted, followed by his big body crashing through the brush somewhere close behind her, closer than before, closer than Claire would've thought possible. "I can't see you, Claire, but I know you're there. I know I'm getting closer. Why don't you just give up and we can go back to your place, share a nice cup of coffee, and talk things through?"

I'm leaving too easy a trail to follow, Claire thought, lips pressed into a thin line.

She took a deep breath to re-energize herself, sucking in the moist, swampy smells and that strange, rotten aroma from the gases, moss, and dead things. Claire moved at a slower but steadier pace through the clutch of cedars, her breathing much better, keeping her feet beneath her and working her way through the chaotic waterways branching out around her. She avoided the water and did her best not to leave muddy boot prints, broken grass, or cracked limbs, moving as quietly as she could.

The highway must be around there somewhere.

It should've been just south of the house, with the edge of the swamp crowding up against it like a dense wall of relentless vegetation. She'd walked it more than once and ridden her bike along it into town on at least three occasions. Her plan had been to take some of the money her grandparents had left her and buy a pickup from someone in the area, nothing fancy, just something to get around and haul building supplies from the hardware store. And while she'd seen plenty of farmsteads and plantation homes on the south side of the highway, there wasn't much on the north side where her grandparents' property sat. She hadn't even had time to walk the entire length of the property yet. The last time had been when she was a small child, adventuring through the swampy woods so many years ago. Times when she and her grandfather had built a little campsite, complete with a wooden clubhouse Claire pretended was her castle. Her grandfather would pretend to be an evil monster stalking her through the swamp, always creeping around her castle but never able to get inside. But her grandfather was no longer the monster. It was Trevor now, crashing through the brush after her, and no castle to save her this time.

The swamp had changed too drastically since then, with long, winding stretches of murky waterways and stagnant ponds of rippling waters. The canopy above sagged with moisture, the dampness infused with Igor's rains and winds. Claire quelled a sense of panic growing inside her gut, a niggling feeling that if she didn't find the highway soon, she'd be trapped in the swamp at night, chased by a murderous shadow.

"Is that you, Claire!" Trevor shouted, followed by something heavy being shoved aside, a log or branch breaking, the wet crackle ripping through the quiet bog sounds. "Just stay where you are, and I'll be right there."

With a brisk shake of her head, her fists flexing at her sides, Claire broke into a run, sweeping through the wet foliage as things slithered beneath her feet. Her eyes darted left and right, absorbing every inch of the path even as she attempted to navigate it… too fast. Claire stumbled on weak knees, and she veered left to avoid a patch of slick mud that sloped downward and to the left, the slight incline peppered with bushes and wet, sluicing dirt. Gasping, reaching for swampy vegetation, she tried to keep from slipping, but her boot went out from under her, the rubbery, knobby treads slipping to send her crashing onto her right knee. The handful of vines she'd grabbed came apart with rotting ease, sending her slipping sideways for three or four feet. With a yelp, she flipped onto her back and went crashing and sliding through the foliage, dragging everything along with her. The ground felt like butter, conducting her downward like an avalanche of mud, greenery, and flailing limbs. She slammed into a root, the old, gnarled wood digging into her back, flipping her feet-over-head into the air, sending her into a blurry tumble. She glimpsed a round patch of grass that might break her fall, but the thick layer of rugged moss and fallen debris masquerading as a forest floor gave way beneath her.

She plunged into the cold, murky depths of swamp water with a cry, sinking deep into the mirk, turning and twisting to right herself in the shockingly deep water. Mouth pressed tight to avoid swallowing the bacteria-ridden liquid, she splashed and kicked, getting her feet beneath her despite all the water trapped in her galoshes. Kicking at the rocks and rotted deadfall on the swamp bottom, Clair sent herself rocketing upward, breaking the surface with a gasp. Spitting and sputtering, her palms smacked on the water's surface with another noisy splash. Cold water soaked her clothes beneath her poncho, seeped into her boots, and drenched her socks. The cold clenched her body in its icy grip, sending an uncomfortable shiver through her body, making her long for anything dry and warm.

Sloshing through the dark waters toward the first stable patch of earth she could see, Claire climbed over and around twisted roots, clambering for purchase. A sound from above - Trevor making noise on the rise she'd fallen from - froze her to the spot. She stood there for a long moment, water dripping from her nose and chin, her hair soaked and tangled in its ponytail holder. The world was quiet, but for the slow drip of water, croaking frogs, and the murderer rustling around in the brush. If he decided to follow her down, it would be dangerous, but he could do it… slide right down into the water with her.

The revelation got Claire moving again, only much quieter. She sank into the water so that only her face was visible, backing away from the long trail of mud and crushed debris she'd slid down. She ducked beneath gnarled roods as thick as her arm, staying hidden until the water started to recede, forcing her to rise above the surface, turn, and climb up the muddy bank.

Fully emerged from the depths, Claire found what must have been an animal trail through the swamp, a thin patch of moist dirt running through knee-high grasses and woody brush. She kept crawling until the vegetation formed a tunnel above her, so thick she couldn't rise to her feet if she wanted to. After twenty yards of crawling, face pressed to the mud, Claire emerged from the thickets' wiry branches, climbing to her feet and shivering in the cool swamp breeze. Her teeth were chattering, and her chin trembled as she searched for a place to run. Behind her, Trevor had fallen silent, a state that frightened Claire even more; at least before she could sense his progress.

Claire closed her eyes and tried to get her bearings. As far as she knew, she'd been heading due east, even angling a little south to meet the road. Slowly, she started in what she thought was the right direction, cutting through the cavorting layers of unsolid earth. and picking her way carefully through the woods. Claire kept to the tighter places, the clusters of green and brown blurs that would hide her from her pursuer. A hundred yards of creeping and skulking got her absolutely nowhere, and soon, every direction she looked appeared the same.

"The road's got to be around here somewhere," she hissed, stepping briskly in her squelching galoshes, feeling like she was standing in two inches of water, the slimy dampness disgusting every time she wiggled her toes or moved.

Fifteen minutes passed, then an hour, and Claire found herself walking on the edge of despair. No road in sight, nothing familiar for her to cling to, and no way to go back. The cold had seeped deep into her muscles and bones by then, and when she pulled her waterlogged phone from her pocket, the screen flickered and went out, causing her to shiver even more as her lifeline to civilization died.

Claire glared up at the sky in sheer desperation, unable to hold back any longer. "Help me! Can someone please help me?!?!"

Trevor's ominous laughter reverberated through the swamp, a jovial sound tinged with a note of seductive victory. Her only consolation was that he sounded farther away than he'd been before, not right on top of her anymore, almost like he was off her trail and heading in the wrong direction.

The fear that had threatened to strangle her loosened, and Claire angled to the left, soaked and shivering in the dampness. Her surroundings blurred as darkness set in, turning everything into gloomy, breathless shadows. Claire set her jaw, steeling herself against what she knew she had to do… survive.

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Chapter 6

Claire drifted in a restless dream, her eyes darting behind her eyelids as the swamp sounds surrounded her. Frogs croaked, and a symphony of insects spoke in chitters and creaks. Soft splashes resounded on the swamp waters, and bigger things shifted through the brush and over the dank, rotted deadfall that formed a sort of smelly mulch. She slept on a soft bed of leaves between the outstretched roots of a cypress tree, covered by alder branches and sweet-smelling swamp rose flowers. Her head rested on a pillow of Virginia creepers she'd stripped off the tree and rolled into a bunch. With her poncho pulled up over her face, she hugged herself throughout the deep night in the company of biting bugs and slithery things.

Claire was dreaming about a sunnier day in the backyard of the plantation house. Grandma Evelyn was attending to her flowerbeds, garden gloves on her hands as she moved dirt and packed it. Evelyn hummed a tune while Grandpa Henry was hunched over the hood of his old Ford parked in front of the garage where the storm shelter now sat. A single shop lamp in an oval cage hung from the hood frame, the power cord sweeping off to one side and out of the way. Henry had a row of tools lined up on the fender and radiator, and he was leaning in his tall form, clothed in a T-shirt and pair of overalls that smelled stale and oil-stained with the faintest hint of pipe smoke. But he'd been at it all day and tended to get that way when he had his mind set on finishing a job.

"This the one you wanted, Grandpa?" Claire asked as she bounded up in a matching set of overalls, the pant legs rolled up to show her brown boots with the striped shoelaces. She held out a small plastic bin of loose ratchet sockets. "These?"

Henry banged on something deep on the inside of the engine block, gave a soft curse, kissed his finger, and turned to greet Claire with a pained smile. His hard, steel eyes looked at her lovingly before dropping to the sockets. "That's exactly what I needed, Claire. Thank you."

He took the box from Claire and placed it down with his other tools, grabbing his ratchet and exchanging one socket for another before bending back inside and turning something with repeated clickety-clack ratchet sounds.

"What are you doing, Grandpa?" she asked, leaning on the opposite fender with both arms, lifting herself, and trying to see.

"Well, I'm working on this cylinder head," Henry said. "Trying to get the darn thing to quit leaking. It feels like she's on good and tight so it must be something with the seal."

"How can you tell?"

He pointed to stripes of oil running down the engine block and dripping on the gravel driveway. "See how she's leaking?"

"Yeah."

"That's a sure sign. Plus, she smokes from her exhaust when I start her up." He leaned back and rested his fist on his hip with the rachet still in hand, using the back of his other arm to wipe his sweaty forehead. "I thought maybe I could get her running, but she might be a lost cause."

"Can I help?"

"If you're interested in cleaning all the engine parts once I get all this taken apart again, sure."

"I'd love to do that, grandpa. Maybe we can get it done before dinner."

Henry laughed heartily, shaking his head at Claire and reaching to rustle her hair. "It's not as easy as that, young lady. We're talking a weeklong job. I don't think that's something you'd be interested in."

"Heck yeah, I would!" Claire hooted enthusiastically.

"You'd spend your whole spring vacation working on an old car?"

"If it was with you, Grandpa, sure."

"It's a tough job, you know."

"How so?"

Henry lifted his eyes past Claire to where the swamp lay in its quiet solitude, full of secrets and puzzles without end. "Working on an old car like this is a lot like surviving out there in the swamp. You need a lot of patience, knowledge, and sometimes a little help."

Claire crossed her arms and stuck out her chest. "That's what I'm here for, Grandpa." Her eyebrows raised hopefully. "Can we take breaks sometimes?"

"Well, sure."

"Then we can wander the swamp, and you can teach me about it too."

Henry seemed to remember himself and winced a little before shifting to look at Evelyn, who was watching from the flower garden. "Sure you wouldn't want to spend time with your grandmother instead? She was hoping you'd help her get things planted."

"I want to do that too!" Claire looked longingly at her grandmother kneeling in the dirt, the girl torn between both activities.

Evelyn shook her head and waved them off. "Go ahead and work on the car. I don't mind watching you two goof around with that old thing while I do the serious work."

Claire beamed, put both hands on the fender, and raised herself up off her feet. "Thanks Grandma, I'll come and help you too sometimes."

"Just remember," Evelyn said, "when you start something, you had best finish it. I don't want you sulking to me the first time you stub a finger."

"I won't Grandma, I promise."

Claire was jolted awake by a violent shiver, a chill coursing so cold up her spine that her teeth clacked for a good twenty seconds before she got the shaking under control. Memories of that maniac Trevor surged back, sending her bolt upright, swallowing a gasp as her heart raced. She recalled her urgent escape through the swamp, the twists and turns, plunging into the pond and its murky dark waters. After that, she'd navigated the unforgiving fingers of swamp stretching all around her, never able to get her bearings until she'd finally tuckered out and found a hollow nook between the cypress roots to rest in. She'd torn off some soft branches and flowers to cover herself and fallen asleep. Now, she blinked at the swamp, alive with sound, a symphony of belches, croaks, and bird whistles. Somewhere nearby, a woodpecker knocked incessantly, and a big fat bug zipped by her head, buzzing so loudly that she jerked back and knocked her head against the rough tree bark.

"Ow," Claire complained softly, rubbing the back of her head.

Shifting slightly brought a chorus of aches and pains - her restless legs and sore hips, scratches stinging her thighs and calves. She'd been sitting crooked, causing a sharp pain to pinch at the base of her neck, and she reached up to rub it as she cleared the brush and flowers she'd been laying under.

A slight rustle near her right foot froze her to the spot. A long, slender, leathery shape moved beneath the dead leaves near her feet. An elongated body, hard, snout, green with mottled yellow spots that blended in perfectly with its surroundings. Claire's eyes roamed from the wide nostrils up the length of the snout, following its long slender body over the muddy bank, fat and green with stubby legs and claws dug into the muck. The tail wound down into the water, where it disappeared beneath the green surface, moving slowly, languidly, in powerful, sweeping strokes. Yellow, reptilian eyes blinked at her, and the end of the snout shifted slightly toward her foot. It chuffed and sniffed, trying to find her scent. If she hadn't been so dirty, so covered in mud and filth, it might have found her outright, but a night in the swamp had left Claire camouflaged against the backdrop of weaving vines and drooping branches.

Heart striking the inside of her chest like a fist, heavy blows she could hear in her ears, Claire cautiously edged backwards, avoiding any sudden movements that might provoke it. The alligator shifted again, made a deep throaty bellow, and opened its maw to reveal gnarly, over-protruding teeth like pointed hammers, ready to grip her foot, twist it into a thousand pieces, and drag her deep into the swamp waters where she'd drown to death.

With a surge of adrenaline and a sharp cry, Claire sprang backward, slamming her shoulders against the tree trunk and rolling to her right as the alligator lunged with a loud snap of its jaws, barely missing her foot where it had been a second ago. She ran square into a jutting cypress root, striking it with her thighs and almost rolling right over it. She backed up, put one boot on it, and launched herself over, just as another sharp snap ripped the air behind her. She could smell the thing now, coming up out of the mud, rising from a world of bottom-feeder catfish and crawdads, stagnant waters bursting with mosquito eggs and floating dead things.

She was up and over the root, dancing through the swampy tangle as branches whipped her in a barrage of slaps and scratches, but it was nothing like the creature hissing and wiggle-sliding beneath the roots Claire was leaping over, moving far faster than she ever could. When she plunged into a waist-high pool of murky water, she thought she was done for. She slogged a few feet to the other side and climbed a bank covered in rocks and sand, scrambling up it and plunging through a wall of sharp branches, coming out on the other side of the trail she'd been on the previous night. Standing there, panting with her hands on her thighs, Claire looked around at all the same endless green, surrounded by the same croaks and rustles. She whirled at the sound of something coming up the bank behind her, but there was nothing there, just the tiny ripples she'd made climbing out of the water. All signs of the alligator were gone, though she had to be careful because she didn't want to meet it again.

By then, she was wide awake, seeing the swampy woods in the first rays of dawn light. The sun shined down through gaps in the trees, casting long golden rays against the gloomy scenery. She swallowed hard, wiped her face with her hand, and was enveloped by a ravishing thirst. She walked a few steps in what she thought might be south, but everything looked the same. Thick trees draped in moss, murky waters glistening in the bold sunlight, the thick humidity pressing in on her lungs with every breath. Panic crept in when she realized she had become hopelessly lost, going far deeper into the swamp than she'd ever intended, with no idea which way was south toward the highway or west back toward home. At least Trevor hadn't gotten her, and it didn't sound like he was around anywhere close, at least not that she could hear or see. For all she knew, he was lost, too, or had found his way back to the house. A hot flash overcame her, beads of sweat breaking out on her brow when she thought about Trevor back at her grandparents, going through their pantry, eating all the food Claire had just purchased. He'd probably go up and sleep in Henry and Evelyn's bed, getting it dirty with his grossness and… evil.

She spun and started walking back the other way, her boots crunching on soft, wet leaves and twigs. In a burst of energy, she picked up her pace and jogged, bouncing from one foot to the other over rocks and dead logs, bending to shove reaching branches out of the way, the forest's skeletal fingers swiping at her, swatting at her face and upraised hands.

Out there in the swamp, you need a lot of patience, knowledge, and sometimes a little help.

Her grandfather's words came back to her, forcing Claire to stop her running and to take a pause on the trail, hands on her hips and breathing heavily, getting thirstier by the second. She was most definitely lost and would get more lost if she didn't stop and take stock of her situation, thinking hard about how to navigate the seemingly endless maze of swamp foliage, how to unlock its secrets... how to survive. Claire closed her eyes, inhaling deeply to calm her racing heart, recalling one of Grandpa's first lessons.

Look for the sun. Follow the moss on the trees because it grows on the north side.

With a sprig of hope, she turned a full circle, peering up through the branches to find the sun's direction through the canopy above. She walked over to a cluster of cedar trees, big fat ones as round as her torso, others mere saplings sprouting up from the moist earth, dripping with vines. She circled them, touching each one, marveling at the soft green moss growing up mostly on one side. Sure, trails of it ran around the tree trunk on the other sides, but it was mostly clustered in big patches on the one, and that had to be north.

Her confidence grew as she stepped back to the trail, putting the clues together and concluding that she must be south of the trees and that the highway would likely be directly behind her. It couldn't be but a mile or two, less probably, and it wouldn't take her long to find her way back. With a wide smile, she turned her face up to the sun, capturing its warmth on her right cheek as the thirst returned tenfold. She couldn't drink straight swamp water. It teemed with bacteria and insect eggs, lots of things she would never want to swallow. But she'd been running through the swamp, bursting through rain-swept branches and getting wet all over again - the leaves... they were still wet from the storm.

She walked over to a couple of fat oak trees, reaching for a low branch and carefully tearing off a single leaf, narrow and ridged and beaded with water droplets. She swept her tongue along its surface, picking up the moisture and smacking her lips. She found another big one and formed it into a tiny cup in her palm, then started reaching for more leaves, breaking them off carefully and shaking the droplets into her hand. After several minutes of that, she had about a tablespoon of water, and she leaned in and slurped it gleefully. The flavor was fresh and green, soothing her throat as it went down. Suddenly, the swamp didn't seem so dark, as long as she had Grandpa Henry to help her through it.

With a spreading smile, Claire went to work gathering more leaves.

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Chapter 7

The swamp breathed with life. Its waterways spread out across the miles. The thick overlapping canopies of mangroves and water oaks blocked out the sky. Along the muddy banks, the air was filled with heat and moisture, crawling with swarms of mosquitoes that whined relentlessly. Clouds of gnats rose off the water wherever Claire stepped, buzzing around her face until she was swiping at them ceaselessly. Croaking bullfrogs competed with the distant screech of a heron hidden among the cypress trees. Damp dirt filled her nose with rich, earthy smells.

She walked the waterlogged paths in the late day sun, trails little more than winding tracks of mud and muck, every step in her galoshes sinking slightly, then squelching as she pulled them free. She'd been hiking for hours, seemed like she should've found the highway by now, but she'd been forced to take circuitous routes, avoiding the soggy grasslands and watery traps. Marching past cypress and tupelo trees with their thick trunks stretching upward into the cloudy sky, Claire lifted her legs over their roots, mired deep in the grip of the swamp. Determining her direction was nearly impossible with moss covering all sides of the trees, the perpetual shade causing it to grow everywhere. Adding to her difficulties, storm clouds had set in a few hours ago, so she couldn't find the sun.

Her stomach was growling, and she was dirty and itchy, scratching beneath her poncho and shirt, swatting at bugs both imaginary and real. The constant drip of water, trickles and splashes, enveloped her in a surreal world of sounds. Yet, Claire marched on, feet aching, back strained, ears listening for car engines or voices, any signs of civilization.

A small, soft bug flew into her face, glanced off her cheek. Claire swatted at it, kept walking, ducking as two or three more flew by, buzzing closer, flying right at her. She was so full of frustration, so intense with her eyes pinned ahead and focused on the next way through, that she barely noticed them. It was only when half a dozen swarmed her head that the sharp warning flares of a warning went off in her brain. A sudden sting on her cheek brought a sharp cry from her lips. The sting was followed by more angry buzzing, and the half dozen bees turned into fifty, then a hundred before she'd taken five more steps. She swatted at them with both hands, rotating her face away, squinting through tears.

An oak grew just off the trail to her left. The bees were crawling from nesting holes in the hollow part, swarming from the cavity, buzzing loudly, taking flight in droves. Several bounced off her forehead, got tangled in her hair. Another sharp sting on her neck, and Claire swatted at the bee, smashing it, fingers gooey as she slung it away. The swarm became a thick cloud, turning the sky dark, hitting her in the face, crashing against her, climbing through the crevices of her poncho—and always the sharp, prickly stings, like hot embers landing on her skin.

With a cry, Claire took off down the path, galoshes pounding the mud, bees buzzing, stinging, and flying at her in a storm of insect fury. They hurled themselves at her pale, exposed skin, stabbing at her relentlessly. Flailing, crying out, Claire shook her head furiously, her ponytail holder flying off, locks of hair whipping behind her as she sprinted. Her ankle twisted, the firm sides of her galoshes the only things keeping her from breaking it. She tripped and went down on one knee, skin scraping hard across a patch of dry pebbles, then was up and running again, fleeing the furious flying army of stingers and buzzing wings. She kept running, kept her head down, arms and legs pumping, even as more punishing stings came. Fifty yards, and then a hundred, ducking and crashing through brush, splashing through muddy swamp grass until her legs screamed for her to stop.

But she trudged on, and after a while, the buzzing faded, the stings stopped, and Claire plunged into a knee-high pond of stagnant water. Tangles of moss and twigs floated on the surface, and a nest of gnats broke upward, but they were nothing compared to the tiny yellow and black darts. She broke through the gnat cloud, waving her arms a few times to clear them out of her eyes, finally stepping onto solid ground. She looked back as a handful of bees buzzed in wide, flat trajectories before they turned back to the nest.

Exhausted from running, skin stinging and scraped, hot tears running down her face, Claire sniffed and looked around for a place to sit. In a small field of swamp grass, one of the few places the canopy of trees didn't cover, lay a rotted log. Claire walked over, stooped to check that there were no bees, and sat down hard on the spongy seat. She put both legs out, bent, and used her fingernail to pick out two stingers on the back of her legs, a few more on the front, one up higher on her thigh that was buried a little deeper, but after some digging, she got it out, casting it aside with an angry grunt. She didn't know if it would help, but she reached into a swath of soft, pliant mud and slathered thick globs of it on the first two stings. A wave of coolness washed over her skin, so she quickly gathered more, spreading it on all her stings, rubbing it in to kill the tiny burns.

She rested forward with her elbows on her knees, hands clasped, staring at the darkening swamp, its denseness…its danger. Her stomach's long, angry groan reminded her that she hadn't eaten since the day before in the shelter—a simple can of beans and some bottled water. She was fine for the moment, but she already felt weaker, more tired than she normally would've been if she'd eaten a big breakfast.

She closed her eyes, remembering Grandpa Henry, digging deep into those memories for more advice about what to do. There'd been that time they were clearing some dead brush on the edge of the swamp, and he'd told her something then. His voice rang clear in her mind, and Clair squeezed her eyes tight to recall his every word.

"In the swamp, there's food and shelter, but you've got to look around. Look for wild berries or tubers near the water's edge. If you've got to spend the night, find the highest ground to build your camp."

Claire stood and walked down to the water's edge, the tall grass brushing against her knees, her muddy legs covered in the stuff, cooling all the spots where she'd been stung. She spotted a cluster of water lilies at the shallow edge of the water, their spiny purple flowers sticking up around the furry, yellow stamens. She waded in until the water came to the tops of her galoshes. Reaching down into the water, she grabbed the plant by its root, pulling gently and drawing the potato-shaped tuber out of the soft swamp substrate. She tore the plant off and put the tuber in her pocket, then looked for more. After ten minutes, she had five decent-sized bulbs in one pocket of her poncho. She backed out of the water, sidestepping around the murky edge and trying to recall the types of berries her grandfather had said were edible. She remembered blackberries for sure, and those grew in thorny brambles and dense thickets. Her grandfather even had a saying to help remember how to look for blackberries, a little rhyme that came back to her in a flood, causing her eyes to fill with sentimental tears. She could almost smell her grandfather's stale tobacco and coveralls as his words touched her ears, singing in that old, gruff voice of his.

"Follow the thorns and look for the shine—blackberries hide where the brambles climb."

And while there were huckleberries, dewberries, and mulberries, she was certain she could find the blackberries she so loved. It didn't take long for her to find a thicket with a sparse cluster of blackberries hanging amid the leaves and thorns, carefully picking them until she had a handful. Throwing two or three in her mouth, she chewed, teeth crushing the soft, pulpy sides and letting the sweet juice slide over her tongue, swallowing it down with a rush of pleasure. She ate the handful, picked some more, and put those in her pocket. Pulling the tuber from her pocket, she wiped it off as best she could, clenching it between her teeth, and biting into the tough, fibrous sides. Chewing on the spongy pulp made her face turn sour, then she remembered Grandpa Henry saying they were easier to eat boiled, so she put the half-chewed piece back in her pocket.

Claire started to set off again, but the sweet blackberry juice lingering on her tongue reminded her of how thirsty she was. It was far more important to find something to drink than to keep moving. She'd only get so far without water, but any ideas of how to get it escaped her in a jumble of memories. While she patiently waited for an idea to hit her, Claire started making a shelter. She had the semi-dry log she'd been sitting on, positioned in the grass on fairly high ground away from the water and any nosy alligators. Thick leafy branches hung everywhere, so she started pulling them down, breaking them off, and placing them into a pile.

As her mind drifted, a few ideas came back to her. Grandpa Henry had taught her how to filter swamp water using sand and pebbles, but that would only get the dirt and particulates out, certainly not the bacteria or other harmful contaminants. The water would need to be boiled for certain, but she had no way to make a fire and certainly no pot or pan. Water splashed and rippled all around her, frogs croaked, and the shadows grew longer beneath the gray sky, making it seem as if the trees were reaching for her. Water surrounded her, but she couldn't drink a drop without getting sick. She could collect morning dew, but that might not even be worth the calories she'd burn to get it. If she had a knife, she could maybe cut a root or branch to give her a trickle.

Just when she thought something might come to mind, her skin started burning again, forcing her to slather on more mud. By the time she was done, her shoulders sagged and her knees wobbled like jelly. Her mind was muddled with worry, and the berries had barely dented her hunger, but at least her stomach wasn't growling anymore. Still, she sensed a faint pang in her gut that would become a monstrous roar by morning. She glanced out at the water, its gleaming surface in the soft gray light. It was cool, cold even, she knew that for a fact. She imagined dipping her hand into it and sipping from her palm. It would be dirty but delicious, refreshing going down…worse coming up. No, she wasn't that thirsty...yet.

As darkness settled around her and the path vanished, the swamp's song grew louder, creatures rustling boldly in the brush. Frogs and herons croaked, and other creatures she could not name warbled and cried, their voices echoing off the swamp canopy. The mosquitoes started in on her, and that's when Claire grabbed handfuls of mud and slapped it on every part of her body, slathering it on the backs of her knees where several small bumps were already rising, plastering it on her forearms and the back of her neck where the itching had nearly gotten out of control, then on her face, covering every part of her but her eyes and nose. With the clouds thickening above her, Claire looked up, squinting at the sky, almost demanding it to start raining. Then she had an idea. While her poncho offered some degree of warmth, she shrugged it off and set it in the tall swamp grass, pressing down to form a shallow indentation at the bottom to capture any rain that might fall when she was asleep.

After covering her arms and neck with more mud, Claire laid her collected branches against the log and climbed beneath it, nestling into the soft swamp grass. Shifting onto her left side, she dug the phone out of her pocket, turning it on and nibbling on blackberries as it booted up. The screen light gave her hope that it might actually work. Her facial recognition unlocked the phone, and her icons appeared on the screen, but nothing worked when she dragged her finger across the glass or punched at it. Water had gotten inside, squeezing into a crevice and ruining the delicate components. Bringing the phone nearer to her face, Claire noticed an odd smudge under the glass, something she couldn't clear away. She also noted the absence of connection bars, but it was irrelevant. There was no means to make a call, no way to reach Deputy Lawry or... anyone else.

Turning the phone off to save battery life, exhausted from the long trek through the swamp and frustrated by not finding the highway, her legs and the back of her neck stung with the faint but palpable bite of those angry little insects. They were small but powerful. Dang powerful. It seemed almost comical in a horrifying way the way they'd chased her halfway across the swamp, causing her to trip and stagger, probably coming close to braining herself on a tree trunk once or twice.

"Bees one. Claire zero," she murmured, reaching from her shelter to grab handfuls of swamp grass, tearing them at the roots and putting them beneath her head.

She adjusted her position several times, trying to get comfortable. But despite the swamp grass beneath her, the ground was still very hard and very cold. She was so lost and alone. Her legs ached, restless from walking, and her feet were wet and soggy. Eventually, her eyelids sank as a deep weariness spread through her, dragging her slowly but inexorably toward a restless sleep. Her last thought before going under was that if she was lucky, it would rain, and she would wake up to a poncho full of water.

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Chapter 8

Claire jolted awake from a fitful slumber at the sound of rustling outside her makeshift camp. A sharp pain shot through her hip, her legs ached restlessly, and her right knee had a slight pinch in it. As she rolled onto her back and stretched, she became acutely aware of the volume of her own movements, loud in the confined space – the branches lying across the log above her, the bed of thick swamp grass, and the buzzing of insects all so loud.

Another rustle, much closer this time, came from something shifting through the swamp grass just a few feet away on the trail. Her blood ran cold at the thought of an alligator slithering through the mud and water lilies, emerging from the brackish water to sniff her out, its elongated head pushing through the tufts of grasses and brush, making its way towards her, ready to snatch her up and drag her screaming into the swamp. Her fears were quickly replaced by the sound of someone breathing heavily, footsteps, words murmured beneath heavy breathing.

She shifted onto her stomach, ready to burst from the loose branches, shouting to the rescuer that she was right there! Still alive after two days of wandering! And the first thing she would do when she got back to town would be to hug Deputy Lawry and thank him profusely, promising to bake cookies, a pie, whatever he wanted, as a reward for getting the rescue teams together so swiftly to find her. But Claire paused, forearm frozen against the ground. The person on the trail was panting like a drunk, mumbling angry words, one she caught distinctly beneath his breath as he growled, "Claire, you little...think you're so smart," snapping off every word like a curse in the unmistakable voice of her pursuer.

He paused somewhere out ahead of her, shifting back and forth, stepping towards her and then away. It was amazing he couldn't see her right there, hidden inside a human-made structure that must stand out like a sore thumb in the middle of all that dirty, tangled swamp. Plus, her poncho was out there, albeit pushed deep into the grass, its color surely enough to stand out in the morning light.

She sank deeper into the soft grass, cold chills swirling in her gut. Elation at the prospect of rescue transformed into fear in an instant, sweat beading her forehead, her skin crawling. Every instinct urged her to crawl quietly from the shelter, slip away into the grass, and run. She was quick and nimble but moving too fast through the swamp would be an invitation to injury. A twisted ankle, a plunge into a moss-covered pond would do her in. Clair was hit with the chilling thought of Trevor crashing into the water behind her, snatching her by the neck, and slamming her face into the slimy pool.

She stayed frozen, reaching slowly into her pocket to retrieve her phone, keeping the power button pressed. Her eyes skittered sideways every time the man out there—undoubtedly Trevor now—shifted and moved. She waited with eager hope as the phone turned on, stomach sinking when the screen showed no cellular connection despite all her icons being there. At least the strange watery smudge was gone, evaporated or trickled deeper in the delicate electronics, but it was working. Maybe even a little better than before.

With nothing left to do, Claire carefully pocketed her phone and lay curled in the tall, itchy swamp grass, muscles bunched, coiled, ready to spring at the first sign he'd found her. Boots crunched on pebbles, branches cracked, one with a thick crack that echoed through the treetops, like he'd randomly swung a huge branch at a tree trunk for no other reason than to hear it break. The commotion sent bugs and birds rising in a fitful chatter, wings fluttering, bursting through the treetops. Something whipped through the air, smacked a tree trunk again, then plunged into the swamp water with a muted splash. Trevor cursed, moving past her to the left, grumbling and huffing the whole way. The sounds faded after a minute, then finally disappeared.

Shaking her head in stunned disbelief, Claire slowly, quietly crawled from her hiding place, turning immediately right, reaching and stretching through the tall grass for her yellow poncho. Reaching it, she held the bowl cupped in two hands, finding no rainwater inside, though dew had trickled down the sides, forming almost a quarter cup at the bottom. Despite some dirt in the water, Claire stood with the poncho, shifted the material to form a trough, put her mouth to the edge, and tilted it back. The water slipped cool and clean past her tongue and down her throat, and as she drained the last mouthful, her throat kept wanting to swallow, tongue licking the plastic, an insatiable thirst rising in her with no way to quench it. As she tried to lick the last few drops, a crunch of twigs and brush behind her shocked her into motion.

Claire turned to see Trevor making his way back, barely seen through the tangle of swamp woods and not even looking her way, his movements urgent and frustrated but not rushed like he'd discovered her. In that brief moment, she realized why he hadn't spotted her earlier – the swamp grass was so tall, it had completely concealed her position.

Tucking her rolled-up poncho under her arm, Claire moved swiftly along the muddy trail, carefully placing each foot heel-to-toe to minimize noise. At one point, she leapt from a rock to a snaking tree root, bouncing back and forth in a silent rush to get over a long puddle. The trail varied in thickness as she covered the next fifty yards, leaping a small stream separating two major waterways, grabbing a low tree trunk, and swinging herself under. Still, Trevor's insistent crashing told her he was gaining quickly. If she wanted to lose him, she'd have to run, but her own noise would give her away. She resisted the urge to bolt, taking strength in the fact that he hadn't found her moments ago despite being mere feet away.

Claire stopped in a small clearing between the rippling waters, eyes sweeping across gullies filled with deadfall and leaf-covered banks beneath a canopy of drooping vines. Leaves fluttered down from above, drifting out across the waters to land gently on the surface. None of it would conceal her, and she pivoted as Trevor ambled even closer, closing in. Turning again, Claire spied a clutch of brush, and behind that, a gnarled tangle of cypress roots. Sinking into a crouch, Claire waddled over, falling to her knees and scrambling between two tightly wound roots that twisted into the dirt like the bars of a jail cell. She had to turn sideways to squeeze through, wiggling her hips and kicking her legs until she fell into the moist dirt beyond. The insides and underside of the roots were covered in moss, plant tendrils, and weeds, with old dead leaves turned to mulch, cold beneath her palms.

In the cool darkness beneath the cypress, Claire crouched motionless, trying to blend in with the shadows of the swamp like a small creature amid the herons and gators. The dangerous stillness of the waters surrounded her as she held her breath, keenly aware of Trevor's heavy footsteps splashing through the puddle she'd jumped over, his thudding steps on the soft dirt, the swishing of his loose coat through the crowded grasses and bushes, the soft rip of thorns catching on the material. The footsteps stopped, and the world fell silent. Claire exhaled slowly, sweat beading on her skin as something crawled up her leg, but fear forced her to remain still, knees buried in the soft earth, eyes locked on the gnarled cypress knees as she craned her neck for a better view.

She gasped and jerked back as Trevor suddenly appeared, staggering past her on the trail. His heavy footfalls moved a few feet beyond her hiding spot before he turned and retraced his steps, spinning around in confusion. From her position, Claire could only see him from the knees up, unable to tell if he was looking her way. He stopped, stooping with his hands on his knees, staring at something on the ground. Wincing, releasing a slow, quiet breath, Claire slunk deeper into the shadows of the great tree.

"Where did you run off to, Claire?" he murmured, standing straight again and turning back and forth, her trail seemingly confusing him.

The ground she'd crawled over left no tracks, but the area was disheveled from her passing. Trevor turned toward her, his belly pushing through the mud-slathered trench coat, his hands resting on his hips. With each passing second, Claire tensed more, her body ready to move but unsure where she'd go. Every potential exit seemed too narrow for her to squeeze through. If Trevor found her, she'd have nowhere to run, at least not quickly. Her jaw clenched against raw panic as she prepared to fight, but then Trevor suddenly turned and walked away, moving toward the crowded bank and its murky waters beneath the constant rain of leaves and twigs.

"Come on, Claire! I know you're…somewhere. Just…" His words and curses were lost in a murmur.

Claire swallowed hard, her throat dry and tight with fear. She was certain Trevor was taunting her, goading her into doing something reckless. Her muscles tensed, every instinct screaming at her to run, to fight, to do anything but remain hidden. But she forced herself to stay still, barely daring to breathe. Then Trevor shook his head, his expression unreadable from this distance. He mumbled more words she couldn't decipher amid the cacophony of swamp sounds - the constant drip of water, the rustle of leaves, and the occasional splash of something unseen moving through the murky depths. Claire strained her ears, desperate to catch any hint of his intentions, but the swamp's symphony swallowed his words whole.

Her hands slowly clenched into fists, fingernails digging into the soft earth beneath her. A slow-burning anger built within her chest, followed by a flash of hatred and an almost violent swell of emotion. Anger coursed through her veins at the thought of being forced into the swamp for the simple crime of defending herself and having the misfortune of crossing paths with a pair of shameless murderers. She breathed forcefully yet softly, nostrils flaring as she fumed, lost and alone, trapped by a madman.

But as Trevor stood there, something in Claire reveled with satisfaction. His clothes were disheveled, covered in mud, his hair messed up, leaves and twigs stuck in his beard along with what must've been swamp moss. His eyes were half-lidded as he looked around, mumbling incoherently, crouching to search the water for something.

He finally moved off to the left, stepping out of her field of vision, forcing her to crawl a little to her right and crane her neck through one of the twisted openings. He stepped carefully into a depression, arms held wide to keep his balance as he descended. Only his top half was visible as he stooped for a moment, splashed a bit, then coughed. At first, Claire imagined he was merely cleaning up, then he rose with his two hands cupped in front of him, staring greedily at the sloshing water in them. He'd found the trickling stream connecting the two stagnant ponds and was about to drink! Claire stared in disbelief as he craned his neck forward, puckered his lips, and took a big slurp. Tilting the rest back, Trevor drank it all down and licked moisture off his palms. Then he smacked his lips ridiculously before giving a big sigh of satisfaction and heading back the other way.

Claire blinked, shook her head, trying to remember if her grandfather had given her faulty information. No, it was definitely not a good idea to drink swamp water, even if it was moving in a cross stream. But everyone should've known that, even an evil oaf like Trevor. Still, she'd seen him drink it as clear as day, at least a half cup of it in his belly, the bacteria swirling in his guts. The mere idea of it turned Claire's own stomach.

Once the sounds of his passing had dissipated into faint footsteps and crackling branches, Claire squeezed back through the way she'd entered, wiggling, falling to her hands in the leaves and sticks, kicking her feet until she dropped to all fours. She crawled to the path, looking back the other way, a slow grin spreading across her face.

Quietly, Claire stood and backpedaled, dusting off her hands, finally turning and heading in the opposite direction.

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Chapter 9

The Wilder plantation lay beneath the dark passage of sluggish clouds, remnants of the hurricanes that had ravaged the area. Sunlight pierced through gaps, casting warm rays across puddle-dotted grounds. Gusts of wind set the swamp trees into an agitated whisper, forcing Deputy Lawry to clutch his hat to his head firmly before it got blown off.

As the wind subsided, Lawry's gaze returned to the plantation house where Officer Stan Harper conducted his search. Harper's voice, calling Claire's name, echoed hollowly from the porch. The eerie silence and the gaping back door amplified Lawry's growing unease, and a blossom of panic and regret twisted his insides as the reality of his oversight sank in. Suppressing his self-recrimination, Lawry turned his attention to the storm shelter at the end of the driveway. Its wind-battered sides and lingering debris spoke volumes. Two days post-storm, Claire should have tidied up, should be inside sipping tea between repairs.

The thought gnawed at him. I should have called. I should have damn well called.

Officer Brantley emerged from the shelter, her head shake confirming Lawry's fears. "Nothing, sir. No one's been in here for a couple of days. The floor is covered with leaves."

Lawry nodded grimly, his mind racing through the chaotic aftermath of the storms. The looters, the missing teens, the endless emergency calls, his parents' farm and some problems they'd had with a collapsed structure — all had consumed his attention, burying his promise to check on Claire.

"Thanks, Sarah," Lawry said, gravel crunching underfoot as he approached the shelter. "I appreciate your thoroughness. I just wish we'd gotten here sooner." His words hung heavy in the air, laden with regret and growing concern.

"Want me to check for prints?"

Deputy Lawry nodded, his jaw tightening. "Yes, please. Check for prints."

He cursed himself silently for not getting Trevor Cross's prints earlier, before they'd received the alert from Florida about the brothers' suspected involvement in a murder. Lawry paced the driveway once more, then turned his attention to the yard. His eyes scanned the ground, searching for boot prints larger than those of a petite woman barely over five feet tall, all of a buck twenty if she was lucky. He scrutinized every inch of the driveway and yard, desperate for a single clue that might reveal Claire Wilder's whereabouts.

His gaze was inexorably drawn to the swamp. Its dark recesses loomed before him, a labyrinth of tangled vegetation. Bog trees and mosses grew in dense layers, piling atop one another in a suffocating tapestry of green and brown. The air hung heavy with the pungent, earthy aroma of stagnant water and decaying plant matter. As Lawry stared into the impenetrable thicket, a sense of foreboding settled in his gut.

While Brantley rushed to the cruiser for the print kit, Lawry resumed his meticulous search of the yard, stepping slowly and deliberately around loose debris still scattered about. His keen eyes scanned every inch of the ground, noting a small pile of branches and garbage near the back porch steps. It looked as if Claire had started cleaning up but had paused for some reason, leaving the job unfinished.

"What stopped you?" Lawry whispered, his brow furrowing as the pieces he'd already lined up in his mind began to fit even tighter. A sense of unease crept up his spine as he pondered the implications of the abandoned cleanup.

"Sir... Deputy Lawry!" The sudden call jolted him from his thoughts.

Lawry looked up, his hand instinctively moving to rest on his holstered weapon. Officer Harper stood in the rear doorway, an urgent expression on his face. "What is it, Harper?" Lawry asked, his voice tense with anticipation.

"I've got boot prints all over the house, sir," Harper reported, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Big ones. And some smaller ones, too. It's a mess in there."

"But no—" Lawry wanted to say bodies but choked on the word.

"No one's home, sir. No sign of Claire Wilder."

After an intense sigh of relief, Lawry's eyes narrowed. "How big are the big ones?" he asked, dreading the answer but needing to know.

"Huge, sir," Harper replied, his eyes wide. "At least a size twelve. Maybe even bigger. They're all over the place, like someone went stomping through the house not caring if they got mud everywhere."

Lawry turned back to the swamp, cursing softly. A well-worn path snaked along the waterway's edge, skirting the Wilder property and weaving through clusters of cattails and pickerelweed. It disappeared into the dense, protective tangle of vegetation. He envisioned Trevor Cross forcibly dragging Claire into that green maze, her screams muffled by the thick foliage. Bile rose in Lawry's throat, but he swallowed hard, forcing it down. Something else…a nagging intuition whispered that Claire might have fled into the swamp to hide. If so, every second counted.

Raising his radio to his lips, Lawry keyed the mic. "Tawana, you copy?"

"Go ahead," came the swift reply.

"I need all available units at the Wilder property immediately. Tap county resources if necessary. Advise them we're conducting an active manhunt for a murder suspect. Stress that a young woman's life may be at stake."

* * *

Claire crouched beside the ancient swamp oak, clutching a jagged rock, using its pointed edge to slice open a thick vine coiled around the trunk. The tough skin split, revealing an unappetizing green pulp within. Grimacing, she squeezed the vine with her left hand, two inches above the incision. Her expression softened as droplets of moisture beaded at the wound. Leaning in, she extended her tongue, lapping at the scant liquid and pressing harder to extract more. The tepid, slightly earthy fluid coated her tongue, soothing her parched throat but doing little to quench the gnawing thirst in her belly.

Moving to another vine, Claire managed to extract a bit more moisture, but it was far from sufficient, only driving her thirst for more. She sat back on her heels, racking her brain for any forgotten advice from her grandfather — some hidden knowledge that might reveal a source of clean, fresh water. As ideas flitted through her mind, she retrieved the last two berries from her pocket and swallowed them, imagining they were part of her grandmother's freshly baked blackberry pie, its flaky crust enveloping warm, sweet, syrupy fruit. She briefly considered chewing on the collected tubers in her pocket but quickly dismissed the notion.

"Absolute last resort," she muttered, recalling how disgusting they'd tasted.

Rising to her feet, Claire meandered along a twisting path while surveying her surroundings. Her galoshes squelched with each step, her bare legs caked with dirt, skin still burning hot from the bee stings. The mud applications barely dulled the pain anymore, and she longed for one of Grandma Evelyn's homemade remedies — a soothing balm to alleviate her discomfort — but Claire was far from the safety of her grandparents' home, lost in the wilderness, navigating south based solely on the trees' guidance.

Glancing upward, she spotted more patches of gray sky through the canopy where the sun remained hidden, offering no warmth or golden rays to pierce the gloom. The swamp's perpetual creaking and croaking surrounded her, its decaying earthy odors permeating the air. Moisture hung heavy in the atmosphere, drifting through the dismal weeping trees and drooping undergrowth. For a moment, Claire felt as if she were trapped within a massive, sentient organism, a living entity content to have ensnared her, patiently waiting to digest and absorb her into its deep green layers.

She pressed onward, her boots squelching with each laborious step, eyes darting from tree to tree and scrutinizing the moss-covered bark and dangling vines. The deceptive patches of green swayed in the stagnant air, their positioning in light and shadow offering misleading guidance. As she progressed, the landscape transformed before her eyes. What had once been a network of intertwining paths now gave way to a maze of deeper, more expansive waterways. The murky channels forced her to choose her route more carefully or else risk plunging into some swampy trap. Open sores now peppered her skin where she'd scratched incessantly, longing to submerge herself in the cool water, if only for a moment's relief. But she knew better. Exposing her raw wounds to this fetid swamp water would only invite infection.

Claire navigated the treacherous terrain, forced to clamber through gnarled tree limbs spanning a murky pond. The rough bark scraped her arms and legs as she worked her way through, every bump of her knees and elbows eliciting a sharp intake of breath. With a final effort, she swung herself down, landing hard on her heels. The shock reverberated through her body, sending jolts of pain up her knees and hips, forcing a cry from her lips. Whimpering and grimacing, Claire staggered across the uneven ground, her ankles twisting precariously with each step until she finally came to a halt, struck with a sudden fear.

It wasn't the stumbling or pain that truly frightened her, but the alarming weakness permeating her body. Barely two days had passed since her last big meal, yet the aches in her hips and legs were intensifying at an alarming rate. The pain in her right knee had evolved into a searing sensation, as if someone had embedded a needle beneath her kneecap and was slowly, mercilessly twisting it.

Claire attempted to quell her rising panic. "You're fine," she told herself, her inner voice wavering. "Just…keep moving."

Claire took three more tentative steps, then gasped as a sharp pain stabbed under her kneecap and shot up her leg. Gritting her teeth, she limped forward carefully through the waist-high grass until a sudden hiss and slither behind her sent her surging ahead with wild, careless steps. She burst into a clearing and stopped, panting and sweating, eyes widening at the wild swamp flowers in vibrant hues edging multiple waterways, the flowers' delicate, bright petals standing out in the gray light. Claire's gaze lifted, surprised to be standing in one of the few places where the oppressive canopy gave way to endless gray skies.

Claire limped towards a fallen cypress tree, its fractured base straddling the swamp waters, vines and creepers cloaking its submerged branches. Settling onto a thick, lifeless root, she leaned forward to examine her knee. The slight swelling came as no surprise, though the cause eluded her. It could have been the frantic dash from the house or the tumble she'd taken into the murky pond. Or perhaps those tense moments crouched in hiding, every muscle coiled as she waited for Trevor to go by. Leaning back, Claire closed her eyes, imagining the sun's warmth striking her cheeks, seeping into her skin, infusing her with the strength to press on. Before long, exhaustion claimed her. Sleep, deep and disorienting, pulled her under with a bone-deep weariness that brooked no argument.

In her dream, Claire found herself transported to her grandparents' house. The air was thick with the aroma of grilled meats and seafood, mingling with the scent of vegetables roasting in foil packets on the upper racks. She and her cousins darted through the yard, their laughter echoing across the property. The centerpiece of their play was the old tire swing, suspended from the lone oak that had stood sentinel in the backyard throughout Claire's childhood, its sturdy branches offering shade and adventure. Yet even in her dream, she knew its fate — destined to be split asunder by a bolt of lightning in some future tempest, marking the end of an era.

Claire's heart swelled with boundless optimism, a time when the world seemed to cradle her in its protective embrace. Even the menacing depths of the swamp couldn't tarnish that golden era, not with her parents watching over her from the sun-drenched deck, their glasses of sweet tea catching the light. Her mother's canary dress bloomed like a beacon against the weathered wood. As she raced up the porch steps, eager to drink in the sight of her parents' faces for the first time in years, a primal roar erupted from the swamp's murky heart. The sound tore through the air, and Claire found herself wrenched from solid ground. Brackish water enveloped her legs, its grip unyielding as it dragged her screaming across the surface. She clawed desperately at empty air as the swamp pulled her deeper into its maw, severing her connection to family and all she held sacred.

Claire's eyes flew open as she jolted awake, nearly tumbling from the broken cypress trunk into the muck below, but she caught herself at the last moment, steadying her trembling body and anchoring herself in place with her feet. The warmth of her dream evaporated, replaced by the harsh reality of gray skies and a biting crosswind. The swamp's eerie voices sang on, punctuated by a sound that made her blood run cold, a ragged bellow, part man, part dying wolf. Each note stretched long and mournful, occasionally ending in a curse before resuming its agonized refrain, the voice carrying a pain so agonizing it couldn't possibly be human.

Two days ago, she would have fled from such a sound, treating it like a nightmare turned into reality. Now, she remained rooted to her seat, rubbing the side of her aching neck. The bee stings burned fresh, their intensity drawing involuntary tears of frustration and pain to her eyes.

Claire rose unsteadily from the tree, her legs wobbling beneath her as she stumbled around the clearing. Eyes glazed with pain, she scanned the area for some damp earth. When she found it, she squatted there and rubbed at the old stuff on her skin, flaking off the dried dirt and blood. With trembling fingers, she scooped up handfuls of the new mud, spreading the gritty paste over her burning flesh in a futile attempt to quell the relentless agony of the stings. Claire finally straightened, turning towards the source of the agonizing cries and recognizing it as Trevor's voice, bellowing in pain from the contaminated water he'd drunk earlier that morning.

A mixture of surprise and relief washed over her. "I didn't think it would work that fast," she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief at her unexpected fortune.

Trevor was incapacitated now, rendered helpless by his violent illness. All that remained was for Claire to navigate her way out of the swamp. Once free, she'd alert Deputy Lawry to Trevor's location, guiding him by those pitiful screams, assuming he was still alive by then. Claire's lips curled into an unbidden smirk, a dark chuckle bubbling up from her chest. The irony of the situation struck her, and she found herself relishing a surge of cruel satisfaction. Despite her dire circumstances — lost in the swamp, parched and famished — she couldn't suppress the twisted amusement that coursed through her veins.

As Trevor's agonized cries pierced the air once more, Claire's composure crumbled. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, her body wracked with silent laughter, forcing her to put her muddy fingers over her mouth to muffle the sound. Her shoulders shook, belly knotted tight, eyes wide and watery, tears streaking down her face. Even in his weakened state, Trevor might still pose a threat if he knew she was so close, so Claire bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting copper as she struggled to regain control of herself.

The sharp pain sobered her almost instantly, and, nodding and wiping tears off her cheeks, Claire trudged through the sodden vegetation, her movements hampered by a deeper limp. Her grandparents' home lay somewhere beyond the swamp's edge, perhaps just out of sight or over the next rise, and she forced herself to turn away from Trevor's agonized wails and retrace her steps.

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Chapter 10

Claire trudged along the broken trail, battling through a labyrinth of vegetation. Fallen logs, dense woody thickets, and thorny pink swamp roses clawed at her clothing and skin, impeding her progress with every step. Trevor's voice echoed behind her, crashing through the swamp woods, calling her name. Despite her frantic pace, he remained unnervingly close. She'd thought she'd put miles between them, yet his presence loomed, thrashing and splashing through the sloppy, sloshing grasslands.

"Claire! Stop! You've been a bad girl…killing my brother and not owning up to it!"

Confusion and fear gripped her. How could he still be following me? she thought. I should have lost him by now.

As if reading her thoughts, Trevor's voice boomed, "We're one with the swamp now, Claire. I can sense you. I know where you're going...you can't get away!"

Claire prepared to plunge into the swampy waters, eyeing a hummock on the other side of a long stretch of hazy bog. A vicious cramp seized her, twisting her insides with such force that she dropped to one knee, grasping a hanging vine to stay upright. The sickening pain was unmistakable - a consequence of drinking from the wrong vine. Another vital piece of knowledge her grandfather had surely taught her, now lost in the fog of time since her childhood.

Trevor's voice echoed through the swamp, no longer the ravings of an ill man but something far more chilling — mad obsession, focused only on pursuing her and ending her life.

"Claire, you're only making this harder on yourself."

"Go to hell!" she snarled, gritting her teeth against the pain as she wrapped the vine around her hand. Using it as leverage, she hauled herself upright, stumbling forward through the dense undergrowth.

Trevor's laughter rang out, tinged with a manic edge. "I can hear you now, Claaaire," he sang, voice teetering on a high, cracking note. "I'm coming for yooooouuuu!"

Branches snapped, leaves rustled, and heavy boots slammed through the waterways behind her, followed by a sickening, lung-racking cough, reminding her that her tormentor was all too human, and all too close. She pushed through the pain in her side, her eyes scanning the ground for clear paths through the waist-high grasses. She plunged into a pond of murky water, kicking her knees high as she trudged toward the hummock on the far side. Reaching the base of the rise, she fell forward, scrambling and crawling through the dense vegetation, a thick layer of dead vines, logs, and swamp detritus that had washed up against stable ground. Gasping for breath, she clawed her way up the slope, elbows digging into the mossy rot, knees scraping against roots and sharp branchlets, her mud-caked goloshes providing crucial traction as she ascended. On her aching belly, Claire inched to the summit, finally hauling herself to her feet atop the hummock.

Standing there half slouched and panting, she surveyed her surroundings. It was the highest point she'd reached in the swamp, offering a grim panorama of the treacherous landscape. To one side stretched a labyrinth of waterways and channels, promising an endless struggle through waters teeming with scaled predators waiting to drag her under. She turned, stumbling toward a tree-lined slope, her gaze sweeping over the landscape, taking in the cypress and swamp oaks interspersed with white-flowered shrubs and alder trees below, their roots entrenched in the waterlogged soil. A sudden snap of a twig sent her whirling back, her eyes scanning the shallow incline of decaying vegetation and muck. The tangled roots and fallen logs she'd just climbed remained undisturbed, with no trace of Trevor in the murky waters she'd waded through or the sodden grasses she'd struggled past. Only the languid chorus of crickets and frogs offered an unsettling semblance of normalcy in the oppressive air.

Shifting once more, Claire faced the only direction she hadn't looked in yet. Her eyes fell upon patches of brown nestled among sparse, slender trees, punctuated by taller, thicker tree trunks with pale bark. A shallow pond meandered between them, while a long stretch of loftier trees extended into the distance. A gentle breeze rustled through the canopy, offering no guidance for her next move. The warm sun beat down on her face, finally breaking through the clouds, and she tilted her head upward, noting its position just past its zenith and slightly to her left. It must have been well after midday, which meant that direction must be...west. She hesitated, knowing the sun's position could vary depending on the season. Still, it would generally be westward, a scrap of information she hadn't had moments ago.

Claire spun southward again, where the swamp grew dense and the murky waters concealed hidden dangers, then pivoted back north where the terrain appeared more inviting. She clenched her fists, nostrils flaring as she tried to focus. Heading north would lead her further from the highway, but the southern route seemed too perilous, especially in her weakened state. Exhaustion weighed on her in waves of weakness, hunger and thirst gnawing at her stomach and her resolve. Something caught her eye through the swaying treetops — a flat, distant shape against the verdant horizon.

"A rooftop?" she whispered, a mixture of relief and apprehension washing over her.

It seemed within reach, perhaps a fifteen-minute walk if someone indeed lived out there. Claire took a step forward, starting down the slope, but froze as the bushes at the base of the hummock began to rustle. Branches brushed together, shifting under the weight of something substantial — far larger than any small animal. Arms reached through the tangle, spreading the branches apart. Shoulders pushed through next, revealing bloodshot eyes that locked onto her, and a pale, dirt-smeared face turned up towards her, saliva dribbling from his slack jaw.

"There you are," Trevor croaked, his voice low and menacing. "Couldn't let you get away so easily. I cut you off. Should've kept going, Claire. Should've run."

Trevor emerged from the brush, dragging branches and stickers with him. They clung to his trench coat and jeans, which were caked in mud and bloodstained, the front of his shirt a mess of vomit and saliva. Claire stood frozen, her mind struggling to process the nightmarish sight before her and how it had gotten ahead of her.

Like an angry tide, Trevor surged from the bushes, thrusting branches aside as he charged up the dirt and grass hill, his bloodshot eyes never leaving Claire's face. The spell of shock finally broke, and Claire stumbled backward, feet slipping on the loose branches and forest debris pushed up against the bank, part of it shifting beneath her. A guttural growl ripped from Trevor's chest, reverberating like a landslide. He moved with unexpected agility, belying the night's violent illness. No longer a man but a feral creature, his fingers clawed at Claire's arms. Spinning away, stumbling to her knees, she narrowly evaded his grasp. Without hesitation, she propelled herself forward, half-crawling, half-falling down the mound of tangled vines and decaying vegetation.

Trevor's iron grip seized her ankle, the rubbery galosh trapped in his viselike hold just as she neared escape. Claire thrashed, a primal scream tearing from her throat. Instead of breaking free, she felt herself yanked backward, her body dragged up the hummock. Sharp twigs and branches raked across her thighs, and a branchlet jabbed her hard in the side, digging between her ribs. She twisted and lashed out with her free leg, heel glancing off Trevor's hands and arms, coming close to cracking him across the jaw but not quite connecting. The wet, flexible galosh in his grasp slipped just enough for her to wrench her foot free with a frantic kick.

Scrambling down the hill, tumbling out of control, Claire dove forward, her shoulder slamming into a protruding stump as she careened through grasping limbs and withering vines. The world spun as she somersaulted to the bottom, crashing into a bed of pale flowers with thorns that snagged her clothes and bit into her skin, halting her momentum. Claire came to rest upside down with her neck and shoulders pressed into the earth, legs tangled above her. The taste of muddy water filled her mouth, and the pungent scent of upturned soil flooded her nostrils.

Trapped in her inverted position, Claire peered up the hillside. Trevor knelt there, his hand grasping at empty air where her galosh had been moments before. A slow, menacing grimace spread across his face, lips peeling back to reveal dirt-flecked teeth as if he'd been gnawing on the earth itself. For a heartbeat, their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills. Then, with deliberate slowness, Trevor rose to his full height, a towering figure against the dim sky. He shrugged off his heavy, tangled coat, revealing baggy trousers clinging to his frame and a sweat-stained shirt plastered to his chest. His unkempt hair whipped about his head in a frenzied halo, and his eyes blazed with a hateful passion that sent a chill through Claire's very core.

Trevor came down, his boots finding purchase on the bed of dead, tangled vines, his lumbering steps sending vibrations through the flexible foundation. Shaking off her stupor, Claire kicked weakly at first, the thorny vines still ensnaring her. As panic set in, she thrashed more violently, drawing on some deep strength that added power to her movements. She wrenched one foot free, then the other. Rolling onto her stomach, she clawed her way forward, thorns tearing at her flesh as she broke onto the path and crawled out of the knotted mess.

Gasping for air, clutching her stomach, Claire climbed to her feet on quivering legs, torn between flight and indecision. The image of the roof she'd spotted to the north burned in her mind, a beacon of potential safety beyond the hummock. But leading Trevor there would be a fatal mistake. She hesitated, her mind racing to formulate a plan that wouldn't seal her doom. Sprinting ahead, her waterlogged galoshes weighing her down with each squelching step, Claire retraced her path, splashing through the shallow pond. As she climbed the slick bank, water cascaded from her clothes, leaving a trail of water dripping on the trail. Trevor's guttural growls grew closer, her name escaping his lips in agitated, gasping breaths.

Claire drew to a sudden stop, stooping and wrapping her trembling hands around the wrist-thick piece of wood she'd seen coming in that direction before. Just as she turned, Trevor came crashing through the pond, his water soaked clothes clinging to his frame as he slogged forward, head down, oblivious to her standing there. She gripped the branch, her posture eerily reminiscent of the moment she'd struck his brother across the jaw with the Louisville Slugger. Trevor's head snapped up, his eyes widening in shock as the club connected with his left temple. A dull thwack echoed through the swamp, followed by the sharp crack of splintering wood. Moist fragments scattered, splashing into the murky pond and sending ripples across its surface. Claire's momentum carried her forward, her feet plunging into the water, now only a couple of yards from her assailant.

Trevor swayed back and forth like a tree in a storm. He touched his temple, his fingers coming away crimson. Blinking hard, he shook his head and refocused on Claire. A low growl rumbled from his throat as he lunged forward. Claire swung what remained of the rotted branch in a backhand arc, the wood whistling through the air. The jagged end caught Trevor's reaching fingers with a sickening crack, and he recoiled, a pained yowl escaping his lips as he cradled his injured hand.

Half stuck, sinking in mud, Claire wrenched herself free from the watery grasp of the swamp. Her muscles burned as she clambered up the slick bank, her heart pounding oxygen through her aching limbs. With a quick spin around, she hurled the splintered branch at Trevor with all her might. It struck the water just short of him, sending up a spray that forced him to step back and throw his arms up, head bowed as he struggled to maintain his footing.

Without wasting another second, Claire bolted southward through the mire, her sodden clothes weighing her down. The moist, stinking air burned her lungs as she pushed herself harder, desperate to put distance between them. Trevor's enraged bellows echoed behind her, each curse and vicious threat sending icy tendrils of fear crawling up her spine. No longer afraid, not caring what course she had to take to get away, Claire fled south, deeper into the treacherous swamp.

As she loped through the waterlogged grass, her grandfather's voice echoed in her mind. Memories of Sundays in his garage with the tinny radio broadcasting Saints games came flooding back. She could almost smell the motor oil and hear his eager shouts as Drew Brees led the Saints' offense downfield.

"Throw the ball, you son of a gun!" he'd bellow when Brees held on too long and got sacked. But when Brees eluded the defense, making an impossible play, her grandfather would cackle with glee. "You can't rattle Cool Brees, you sons of guns! No one can!"

Drawing on that memory, Claire gritted her teeth and pushed herself harder. Her legs screamed in protest, but she refused to slow down. "You ain't got me yet, you son of a gun!" she gasped, her words carried away by the fetid wind as she fled deeper into the swamp, desperate to leave Trevor behind for good and find her way home.

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